


This Is Not a Swan Song

by thats_a_secret



Category: The Witcher (TV), Wiedźmin | The Witcher - All Media Types
Genre: M/M, everyone is poly and nothing hurts, jk everything still hurts lmao, or is it...Requited??, possessiveness but not in the main characters, sometimes a family is two dumbasses and their lion cub, super sappy happy ending, the many shades of Unrequited Love, tv plot but book language, who knows. geralt is the LAST to know., with apologies to the little mermaid and swan lake
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-01-19
Updated: 2020-08-30
Packaged: 2021-02-27 10:01:44
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 4
Words: 30,654
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22315249
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/thats_a_secret/pseuds/thats_a_secret
Summary: “Your curse runs deeper. Animal transformation is old, old magic, and on top of that she added the bit about love. We’ll have to lift it the old-fashioned way.”“The old-fashioned way?” Jaskier sputtered. “And what, pray tell, is that?”Geralt still wasn’t looking at him.“We find your true love.”
Relationships: Geralt z Rivii | Geralt of Rivia/Jaskier | Dandelion
Comments: 156
Kudos: 1154





	1. i won’t stay quiet

**Author's Note:**

> this is the MOST self-indulgent thing i have ever written but fuck if i haven't fallen in love with the witcher series. i read this one interview with Sapkowski and he was like "i want my readers to feel _hot_ , that is my goal," and that's amazing, guys, we stan a legend

The man entered the inn with heavy steps, his face hidden in a black cloak drawn over his head. Holding his hand was a young boy—or was it a young girl? The child was dressed like a simple farmer boy, hair hidden under a hat, eyes fever-bright in a pale face. The two approached the innkeeper cautiously.

“A room for the night,” the man said in a gravelly voice.

“Coin?” the innkeeper asked.

The man’s silence was heavy. The innkeeper sighed, shaking her head. There’d been more and more folk like this since the wars had started—poor, tired and hungry. As far as the innkeeper was concerned, there was plenty of room for the tired and hungry, but only if they paid.

“I’ll work for it,” the man insisted.

The innkeeper scoffed. “I handle this establishment myself just fine, good sir.” But then she happened to glance down at the child, and noticed the sheen of sweat on their forehead, how the poor thing was swaying on their feet. She sighed again. “And what were you offering to do?”

The man tipped his head slightly forward so the golden light struck his eyes—and oh, he was no man, he was no man at all.

“I kill monsters,” growled the witcher. His lips twitched in what could have been mistaken for humor, if only things like him knew what humor was. “I can also wash pans and mend clothes.”

The innkeeper barely blinked. She had owned this inn for decades now, and had developed a spine of steel. “Well, you should have said so,” she simply replied. “I find myself in need of your services, and I won’t stiff you for honest work. Toss a coin to your witcher, as the saying goes.”

The witcher’s lips twitched again.

The innkeeper described a pretty lake in the forest near the inn, which used to be a popular attraction for the townsfolk. But about a month back, people suddenly couldn’t approach the lake anymore. If they came too close, they would somehow find themselves on the other end of town, with no idea how they got there. And then that infernal singing began. Every night, from dusk to dawn, a clear high voice drifted into the inn from the lake, ruining everyone’s sleep. The tunes lingered in one’s ear for days afterward—jovial, somber, epic, it made no difference. For a monster it was relatively harmless, yes, but after a month of that singing the innkeeper was ready to wring the wretched creature’s neck herself, if only she could get to the lake. Needless to say, it was terrible for business.

“Can you help me, witcher?”

The witcher’s expression was blank. “I’ll look into it,” he said gruffly.

It did not fill the innkeeper with confidence, but she supposed she had nothing to lose.

“Then it’s a deal. Go to the lake and put an end to this nonsense, and you’ll have your room, and a good meal too.” She looked at the child again. Odd, for a child to cling so to a witcher. “If you like, the child can stay here while you—”

The child’s eyes flashed with piercing anger, and their hands clenched around the witcher’s arm. The witcher looked down at their face, and they stared at each other for a long moment. The witcher broke first, looking away with a grunt.

“There’s no need,” he said. “The child stays with me.”

Odd, very odd. But it was not the innkeeper’s place to question it. “As you like, sir. Good luck.”

They walked out of the inn, the witcher and the child hand in hand.

* * *

“I don’t need an inn,” Ciri said.

“We are not discussing this again,” Geralt growled.

“We have not _discussed_ it,” Ciri huffed. “ _You_ just decided this, without ever _asking—”_

Her foot caught on a tangle of tree roots and she almost fell flat on her face, but Geralt steadied her. He crouched in front of her, staring hard at her face, and brushed his palm over her forehead.

His hands reminded Ciri of her grandmother’s. Firm, scarred, and thick with sword calluses, but gentle too. They comforted her even as the memory stung.

“You need proper human rest, and proper human food,” Geralt said quietly. “Things I cannot provide in the wilds. It’s a while yet to Kaer Morhen. So we’re going to rest here and find medicine for you until you are well. I’m not leaving your health up to the tender mercies of destiny.”

Ciri groaned, as Geralt took her hand and kept walking them through the forest. He led Roach, their horse, with his other hand. “It’s just a _cold_ , Geralt! Shouldn’t you be more worried about, I don’t know, the man trying to kidnap me? Or the monster living in the lake?”

“Men and monsters, I can kill,” Geralt muttered without looking at her.

Ciri rolled her eyes. She immediately regretted it, as it made her head hurt.

She wasn’t quite sure what to think of Geralt yet. She trusted him, of course. She knew the shape of his soul, how closely their fates were tied, and she even knew—somewhere deep down and frightening—that if she wanted, she could make visible his dreams and fears and tear through them with her mind as easily as tearing a bit of parchment. She had no doubt that Geralt would protect her with his life.

But in all other respects, he was a stranger. Ciri didn’t know why he cared for her. She couldn’t read the fleeting expressions that would sometimes cross his face. She wasn’t even sure what a witcher _was_ , exactly. Was he a sort of sorcerer, like Mousesack? If they were going to Kaer Morhen, did he want her to become a witcher, too?

Geralt stopped to inspect the trees. At Ciri’s insistence, he explained what he was looking at: a snake-bone charm tied to the branches, carefully hidden in the leaves.

“These are all over the forest,” he said. “See these runes? It’s a simple misdirection spell to keep people from reaching the lake.”

“Why would a monster put up these runes?” she asked.

Geralt hummed. “I doubt that it was a monster.”

“You mean it’s a person doing this?”

He shot her an unreadable look. “Or something in between.”

Ciri’s fever was making it hard to think. She wanted to ask, _What do you mean? Why would anyone, whatever they were, want to keep people from reaching the lake?_ But the thoughts whirled about in her brain and evaporated before she could say them aloud. She shook her head, frowning at the trees.

Geralt sighed. He tied Roach to one of the trees and picked up his black leather bag, the one containing his two swords and other witcher-related things Ciri couldn’t name.

“Come on, Princess. Follow my lead. Two steps forward, and one step back.”

Carefully, Ciri counted two steps forward, and then one step back. She repeated this until her head spun. It was unbearably slow for what felt like hours—and then suddenly, with no warning, they were at the lake.

“Oh!” Ciri said, delighted. The sun was just setting, and the sky and the waters were tinged a lovely pink. Sweet yellow flowers bloomed by the shore, their petals sprinkling the surface of the water. It really was such a pretty lake.

“Stay on your guard,” Geralt rumbled. He tucked them both behind a bush, so they could watch the lake without being easily spotted, and set down his bag on the ground. He curled one hand protectively around her shoulder while the other strapped on his silver sword. “Whatever it is, it starts singing at dusk. We should see it soon.”

But the only things moving over the lake were the wind, and a small flock of white swans. The swans floated peacefully on the water, tracing aimless and beautiful patterns over the surface. Ciri felt her heart being soothed at the sight. She watched in silence, as the twilight faded and the last rays of sunshine drained out of the sky.

Then the swans on the lake drifted to the shore, and one more swan lifted its head from where it had been sleeping on a bed of grass. This swan was different than the others—it had a green ribbon tied around its neck. As the other swans settled on the ground for the night, the swan with the green ribbon shook itself awake and started waddling toward the water. It dipped one webbed foot into the lake.

Bright light shone. It was as if concentrated starlight rippled from where the swan touched the water. Ciri gasped. The swan pushed off from the shore, and silver light flowed from its body, pouring through the lake until it was hard for Ciri to see the swan, everything was so bright. When the swan reached the middle of the lake, it lifted its wings and dove underwater, and it was like the moon itself burst open in front of Ciri and splashed its radiance over the center of the lake. Out of that radiance, the swan rose—only it wasn’t a swan anymore. It was the figure of a person. A man.

Geralt let go of Ciri and leaped inhumanly high over the bush, startling her. He stopped at the edge of the water and stared at the man, so still he wasn’t even breathing. Ciri stayed behind the shrub, feeling fear run cold in her blood.

The light was fading from the lake. The man floated with his feet some inches above the water, eyes closed. The green ribbon was still there, stark around his pale neck. He sighed, and opened his eyes, and saw the witcher standing right in front of him.

The man’s jaw dropped.

“ _Geralt!!??”_ he squawked.

The light cut out. The man dropped into the water with an almighty splash. Ciri blinked into the sudden darkness. Moments later, she heard the man flailing about in the water, sputtering, “ _Geralt! Geralt, help!”_

“Fuck,” Geralt bit out, and waded straight into the lake, sword and armor and all.

As Ciri’s eyes adjusted, she emerged from the shrub and came to the edge of the lake. Geralt had grabbed the man by both armpits and was dragging him backward toward Ciri. The man was keeping up a stream of constant babble even as he coughed up the water in his lungs: “You wouldn’t _believe_ how glad I am to see you, Geralt, I thought I was done for, I mean _really_ , ending my life as a swan, and by the way swans are _much_ more of a nuisance than the poems would have you believe, of course you might say that there are many ways to spin this whole thing as _romantic_ , but I would much rather—”

“What the _fuck!”_ Geralt snarled, stomping out of the lake with water streaming out of his armor, and tossed the man to land on a patch of soft grass next to Ciri. “What did you _do_!?”

“What did _I_ do!? There you go again, blaming it all on _me_ —”

As the man fussed about, he finally saw Ciri. He froze. And then his entire being suddenly shifted to pure delight, and he smiled at her. Ciri thought his warm eyes and crow’s feet looked very kind. They made her want to smile back, so she did.

“Hello, my dear! You wouldn’t happen to be—” He blinked, glanced down at his very naked self, and scrambled back a few feet. “Oh gods, this is positively _mortifying_. Geralt! Do something!”

“What do you want _me_ to do!?” Geralt barked, busy wringing water out of his great mane of hair.

Ciri turned and went back to the shrub.

“Oh no, oh gods, I’ve chased her away. This is not how I wanted our first meeting to go at all. Geralt!”

“Shut up! We have more important things to worry about than your bare ass!”

“ _Geralt!_ Is that any way to speak around a child!?”

Ciri came back, having fished Geralt’s big black cloak out of his bag. The man beamed at her and accepted the cloak gratefully.

“Thank you ever so much, sweetheart. It’s clear you have more sense than that brute.”

Geralt scowled. Ciri looked between the two of them.

“Do you know each other?” she asked.

“ _Ohoohhh_ , do we know each other,” the man said. There was a trace of bitterness in his voice. But as he wrapped the cloak tight around himself, he smiled at Ciri again and made a funny face. He was trying to make her laugh. “Call me Jaskier. I’m a bard—or, I was until recently a bard.” He winced.

Ciri watched him carefully. “You’re not supposed to be a swan,” she stated.

“No, I’m not,” Jaskier agreed.

Geralt stomped closer, glaring down at Jaskier. “You were cursed,” he growled.

“That is correct,” Jaskier said, deflating.

Geralt closed his eyes and let out a deep, frustrated sigh. Jaskier stared up at him with wide blue eyes.

Geralt opened his eyes again and glared at Jaskier. Ciri was taken aback by the sheer _emotion_ in his face. He was furious, clear as day. She’d never seen him express himself so visibly before.

“Of course you got yourself into trouble again,” Geralt growled. “Do you turn into a swan each day when the sun rises?”

Jaskier was shrinking into himself like a puppy expecting to be struck, but his eyes never left Geralt. “Marvelous deduction. Yes.”

“Was it you, singing every night here for a month?”

“Yes, that would be me.”

“I’ve been hired to rid the lake of the pest singing in it.”

Jaskier’s breath caught. Ciri could see fear spark in the pit of his blue eyes.

Geralt’s nostrils flared, like an angry bull, and he turned away. “Who cursed you?”

Jaskier cleared his throat. “Well, that, that is a rather long story that would make a magnificent ballad,” he said, voice wobbling slightly. “But I’m afraid we haven’t the time. She’ll be here soon, asking for another song.”

“Bard. Don’t be coy,” Geralt bit out. “Explain.”

“I—I may have, misjudged the lady’s character, somewhat? Arielle seemed quite nice when I met her. But now I think she may be a witch? After I—provoked her, she cast a spell to turn me into a swan, and another spell to keep me bound to the lake, and every night she comes to visit me. When she asks me for a song, I—I can hardly refuse her.” He fidgeted with the green ribbon around his throat.

Geralt drew his sword. Jaskier flinched, but Geralt was not looking at him. “Did this ‘Arielle’ tell you how to break the curse?”

“Yes, actually,” Jaskier said, and then bit his lip. His face was lined with worry.

But Geralt’s attention was elsewhere. He had noticed something in the woods.

“Stay where you are,” he told both Ciri and Jaskier, and then he stalked like liquid shadow from the lake to the edge of the forest. His golden eyes flashed among the trees, silver sword at the ready.

A voice bubbled out of the forest, mischievous and lyrical as a murmuring brook. “Stay your hand, Geralt of Rivia,” it said. “I mean no harm.”

Jaskier jumped to his feet and hovered in front of Ciri, almost protectively.

“I kill only if I have reason to,” Geralt growled. “Reveal yourself.”

A woman stepped out of the trees in front of Geralt. She mostly looked like an ordinary peasant, with a light and cheerful air. But her hair gave her away—it flowed out behind her, impossibly long translucent locks that undulated as if they were underwater, defying gravity. Ciri didn’t know what she was, but she wasn’t all human.

“Yes,” the woman said. “The White Wolf is noble and just, so I’ve heard. I have nothing to fear from you.”

Geralt bared his teeth in a horrible grimace. “I wouldn’t jump to conclusions. Are you going to let the bard go?”

The woman was holding a lute. She strummed a few chords, an impish smile on her lips.

“Now why would you ask that? Are you going to take him back, after trying so hard to get rid of him?”

Geralt made a sound that was more beast than man.

“Arielle,” Jaskier objected, trying to move closer, which was obviously an idiotic thing to do. Ciri grabbed onto his hand, forcing him to stop. He looked at her in confusion, and Ciri shook her head sternly. This woman was dangerous. Jaskier needed to stay right here, with Ciri, where it was safe.

The woman snickered and inched a step forward, idly plucking at the lute. “If this is about your witcher contract, I can think of much happier solutions,” she said. “I can move us deeper into the forest, where no innkeepers will complain of a little song.” She cocked her head. “Or, even better. I can offer the girl a bed to rest in, and any food and medicine she needs. That’s what you’re really after, isn’t it? Why you took on this contract?”

Quick as a striking viper, Geralt grabbed onto her wrist. “How do you know that?” he snarled. “Are you reading my mind?”

“Just keeping an ear to the ground,” the woman continued, seemingly unbothered. “Don’t you agree it’s more than a fair trade? The girl will be safe. In exchange, all you have to do is stop meddling with this poor, sweet human’s life. Everyone will be happier, and we can all move on.”

“What do you want with Jaskier?” Geralt asked.

She laughed. “Jaskier is mine,” she said. “I want _him_. I thought I had him, too, but then I caught him with the blacksmith’s son.”

She shot a venomous look at Jaskier, who shuddered. Ciri could put together the pieces, more or less, but she had already decided she liked Jaskier and this wouldn’t change her opinion. She squeezed his hand reassuringly.

“But I love him still,” said the woman. “And I’m sure he loves me back. I’m just waiting for him to realize it.”

“You trapped him in this prison, stole his form. You think that makes a convincing argument?”

The woman scoffed. “He’s just being stubborn. I’m not hurting him in any way. Come now, White Wolf, you are familiar with this kind of curse. All you need to break it is true love.”

Geralt violently shoved the woman away. The lute tumbled from her grasp with a jarring _twang._

“No love that’s born of magic can be true,” he growled. “Your curse has twisted and ruined whatever might have existed between the two of you. Release him, Arielle, before it’s too late.”

“Or what? He’ll leave me?” She threw her head back and laughed. “He never will. By the end of the new moon, if he still doesn’t love me, he’ll become a swan for good.” She gestured at the other swans sleeping by the lake. “I’d miss his singing, but I wouldn’t mind adding to my collection.”

“Sweet Melitele,” Jaskier said faintly.

Geralt raised his silver sword. “ _Release him_. _Now._ ”

The woman raked her eyes over Geralt, head to toe. The tresses of her hair splayed out behind her like a thousand snakes.

“No,” she said.

Geralt swung.

She dissolved into a fountain of colorless water, the sword slicing harmlessly through air. The water splashed down and rushed over the ground, toward the lake, toward Ciri and Jaskier. Geralt spun around and charged after it.

“RUN!” he bellowed.

Ciri didn’t wait to be told. She bolted to the side, and Jaskier followed her. But then he yelped, and his hand tore from hers. She whirled around to find him on his knees, a fierce torrent of water from the lake ripping at his ankles and cloak. It was dragging him into deeper waters, clinging to him as he flailed.

“Mine!” said the lake in a voice like crashing waves. “MINE!”

Ciri liked Jaskier. He knew Geralt, and although she wasn’t sure if they were _friends,_ precisely, he was clearly important to Geralt. That meant he was important to Ciri. He had warm, kind eyes, and had tried to make her smile even when he was shivering and scared. Not a lot of people in this world were kind when they were scared. Ciri liked him.

So she planted her feet, raised her voice, and screamed: “ _Let him go!_ ”

The air screeched in an echo of agony. The water shook like needles. The lake shrank back, as if wounded, and Jaskier stumbled out of its grip and onto dry land. He blinked at Ciri, dazed.

“Keep moving!” Geralt barked. He had managed to reach them now and grabbed onto them both, hauling them away from the water. “Her power is strongest close to the lake!”

Ciri moved as fast as she could. Over the lake, water clumped together to form the figure of the woman again, who looked out at them in tears. “How dare you steal my love from me,” she sobbed. “Butcher of Blaviken! You’re only going to break his heart all over again! Give him _back_!”

“Wait,” Jaskier choked. His fingers were fumbling with the green ribbon on his neck. “Wait, Geralt—”

To Ciri’s alarm, the green ribbon was constricting, biting hard into his flesh. His eyes bulged.

“Fuck,” said Geralt, stopping in his tracks. “It’s the second spell. To keep you bound and obedient to her.”

His eyes flared with sharp anger, two bright spots of fire in the night. And then they shuttered, dull and muted. He turned to Ciri.

“Princess, grab the lute, and keep running,” he said. “We’ll be right behind you.”

The lute? Why did he want the woman’s lute? No—Jaskier was a bard, so the lute was probably his. The woman only stole it from him.

Ciri nodded, and headed for the lute.

“You don’t have to,” Jaskier said in a small, hoarse voice. “You can—go. Leave me here. It’s—it’s all my fault, so I understand, really, if—"

“Jaskier,” Geralt said harshly.

Ciri picked up the lute. It was big and awkward, but she could run while holding it. She glanced over her shoulder.

Geralt had his silver sword up, the handle next to his face and the blade between their chests. But his other hand was cradling Jaskier’s face carefully, tenderly, like Queen Calanthe sometimes held Eist when she thought Ciri wasn’t looking. His golden eyes burned.

“Hold still,” he murmured.

He tilted Jaskier’s head back and gently slid his blade across his neck. The green ribbon snapped.

The woman screamed in fury. The lake swelled and reared back, preparing to unleash a huge torrent of water. Wisely, Ciri turned and ran without looking back. She could hear the water crashing onto the ground, snapping tree branches and tearing up stones.

Moments later, Geralt was running at her side, even more soaked in water than before. He’d had the presence of mind to grab his witcher bag before fleeing.

“Princess,” he greeted. He plucked the lute out of her hands and tossed it over her head, at Jaskier, bringing up the rear. Jaskier managed to catch the lute. Despite being drenched and still mostly naked, he looked thrilled, and was actually laughing a bit.

“This is amazing!” Jaskier panted. “This—is going to be—the best ballad—I’ve ever written!”

“Less talking, more running,” Geralt said shortly. Without warning, he swept Ciri off her feet and started carrying her bridal style.

“Hey!” she snapped. But she looked over Geralt’s shoulder and saw the roiling water pursuing them, and decided not to protest. “Faster!” she said instead. “Hurry, Geralt!”

Geralt grunted and kept running. They raced through the woods until they reached the ring of snake-bone charms. Roach snorted worriedly as Geralt approached. When she saw Jaskier, she almost knocked him over with a forceful shove of her snout.

“Roach!” Jaskier gasped, wheezing for breath like a dying man. He looked like he was going to throw up, but he managed to say, “Missed you too!”

Geralt practically threw Ciri onto Roach’s back. He untied Roach from the tree and led her, on foot, at a fast trot. This was probably for the benefit of Jaskier, who looked in danger of collapsing at any moment.

The sound of rushing water steadily faded. At long last, they emerged onto the main village road. The only sound in the deepening night was their own labored breathing and Roach’s hooves. The lake was but a distant memory. Geralt apparently deemed them safe enough, and slowed to a walk.

Jaskier still looked drunk on simply being alive. “Running!” he said. He paused to catch his breath, then continued. “On legs! Oh, how I have missed thee!”

Geralt’s jaw clenched. He turned on Jaskier. Ciri still didn’t know Geralt very well, but she had been paying attention, and she could pinpoint the precise moment when all the anger and worry that he had been bottling up until now exploded in their faces.

“Are you _trying_ to ruin your life!?” he yelled.

Jaskier blinked owlishly. “I…what?”

“I don’t understand you!” Geralt shouted. “Why do you keep getting into these situations!? Do you like this!? Do you _want_ to suffer!?”

Jaskier just smiled. “You’re not making any sense, Geralt,” he said. “But I forgive you, because I’m sure you’ve had a very long day.” He gestured at his body grandly. “And look! Human! Bipedal! No more wet bird smell!”

Geralt’s fists clenched spasmodically. “Jaskier, you seduced a fucking _ondine!_ ”

“What’s an ondine?” Ciri asked.

Her voice seemed to draw Geralt out of his spiral of rage. He looked up at her, and took a deep, shuddering breath.

“An ondine is a sort of water nymph,” he said, more calmly. “Known for being elusive creatures, strong spellcasters,” he shot a glare at Jaskier, “and _extremely_ jealous lovers.”

“Oh, is that what Arielle is? Well I can hardly be blamed for not knowing that,” Jaskier huffed. “I thought she was a simple milkmaid.” Quieter, he muttered, “Although maybe I should have asked more questions about the floaty hair.”

Geralt growled a curse to himself. “I’ll kill her, if you want,” he told Jaskier matter-of-factly.

Jaskier startled. “Who, _Arielle_?”

“She is a monster,” he pronounced, clear as a death sentence. “She cursed you and bound you to her against your will. To kill her, I will have to drain her lake and set fire to her trees. The other swans will die. But I would gladly do it, free of coin.” He met Jaskier’s eyes. “Just say that she deserves it.”

Jaskier’s mouth flapped, speechless. Slowly, he shook his head.

“No, Geralt, I don’t believe she deserves it,” he finally said. “I…I thank you, truly, but she is only overzealous in her love. I feel for her. Please do not kill her simply for my sake.”

Geralt sighed deeply. He looked unsurprised, but exhausted. “You should not feel for monsters, Jaskier,” he said.

Jaskier smiled softly at him. “It makes for such wonderful stories, though.”

Geralt looked away.

“The curse,” he grunted. “The first time, was it a new moon?”

“Oh, let me think,” Jaskier said. “Yes, I believe it was.”

“Then Arielle was probably telling the truth. You have until the next new moon—in five days—to lift the curse, or you’ll be turned into a swan permanently.”

Jaskier stopped walking. He looked at Geralt with horror. “But I thought you broke the curse!”

“I broke the spell of binding,” Geralt corrected. “The curse runs deeper. Animal transformation is old, old magic, and on top of that she added the bit about love. I’m not sure that even Arielle is capable of reversing the curse. We’ll have to lift it the old-fashioned way.”

“The old-fashioned way?” Jaskier sputtered. “And what, pray tell, is that?”

Geralt still wasn’t looking at him. Ciri couldn’t see his face. His voice, when he spoke, was leached of all emotion, as dry and heartless as they always said witchers were.

“We find your true love.”

* * *

“A room for the night, as promised,” the witcher said.

The innkeeper was trying not to stare, but they made quite a sight. The witcher was drenched head to toe, and he carried the child—now asleep—on his back. For some reason he had also acquired another man, who was quite obviously naked under an equally drenched, ill-fitting black cloak. The man smiled at her sheepishly.

“You, ah, took care of the problem?” the innkeeper asked. She _had_ noticed that the night thus far had been quiet and song-free.

“Yes,” the witcher growled.

“Who do you think this is? Of course he took care of the problem!” the man piped up. “Why, I could sing—"

“No,” the witcher cut in. He shot a glower at the man, who mimed sewing his lips shut. He turned back to the innkeeper. “Food and a room. _Now_.”

The innkeeper decided it was best not to think too hard on it, and hastily complied.

* * *

Ciri was in a bed. It felt soft and warm and wonderful, and it _smelled_ good. She nuzzled deeper into the blankets.

Above her, she could hear the quiet murmur of voices. Geralt. A hand came to rest on her forehead, foreign in its softness. Not Geralt…Jaskier.

“Just a fever,” Jaskier was saying. “Rest, and lots of fluids. That’s the best we can do for her until the fever breaks.”

“Isn’t there any medicine for this?” Geralt rumbled.

“Oh, certainly. But not any that work better.” Jaskier smoothed back her hair. “Don’t worry. It doesn’t seem like the bad sort of fever. Rest, and fluids, and she’ll be right as rain in a few days.” A pause. “I know, I know. Us silly humans and our frail bodies. But sometimes you just have to wait and trust us.”

Ciri might have dipped out of consciousness. The next thing she knew, Geralt was gently shaking her awake. She blinked at him muzzily.

“You have to eat first, Princess,” he said. “Then you can sleep, okay?”

She felt weak and drained, and the room spun. Maybe it hadn’t been a good idea to use her magic while she had a cold. Geralt pressed a bowl of steaming soup into her hands, and she drank it greedily. She wasn’t hungry, but it soothed her throat.

On the other side of the room, Jaskier hovered a little awkwardly. He was wearing some of Geralt’s clothes, the sleeves and pants legs rolled up.

“How are you feeling, dear heart?” he asked.

Ciri hummed. She felt awful, as expected, but she knew it would pass. She looked between the two of them, and in her semi-conscious state it was incredibly easy to detect the tension in the room, the crowded thoughts in their minds, and the things neither of them wanted to talk about but would do them a world of good.

Grandmother had been right. Men were so terribly stupid.

“It’ll be okay,” she told them both.

“Whaaat will be okay?” Jaskier asked, as Geralt checked her forehead worriedly.

Ciri huffed. Stupid. She sank onto her pillow and closed her heavy eyelids.

“You’ll find it,” she said. “It’ll be okay.”

And she knew it was true, no mysterious prophesying powers required. She drifted back to sleep, cradled in the warm assurance of love.


	2. i'm scared to open my eyes

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> sometimes i need six months to write 5k words and sometimes i need two days, go figure

Jaskier was sitting in a chair by the fire and humming a song that Geralt couldn’t name. His feet were bruised and scraped, and he looked thinner than he should. Geralt’s dark threadbare clothes only made him look thinner, ill-fitting a man who usually preferred fine silks and lace. There was a thin red line on his throat where Geralt’s sword had cut him. Still, Jaskier plucked at the lute, his bare foot tapping on the floor, and just hummed, softly, with his eyes closed. The lines of care and laughter on his face smoothed, and he looked young, exactly the same as when he’d sung for the Cintran court over a decade ago. Geralt sat on the floor against the wall and watched him, unblinking, for a long while.

“You’re not going to sleep?” Geralt finally asked. He spoke quietly, careful not to wake Ciri, and reluctant to break the rare sense of peace that he felt in this moment.

Jaskier stopped humming, but kept strumming the lute. He grinned at Geralt. “I’ve been sleeping all day!” he said, in an equally hushed voice. “Not much better to do when you’re a swan. Now I’m not tired in the slightest. It just feels so _wonderful_ to play music for myself again.” His face, ever-expressive, took on an ironic slant. “I have been blessed with a rapt audience every night for a month, which some bards can only dream of. But nothing quite compares to letting the mind wander freely, with only the company of a warm fire and a close friend.”

And there it was again. The anger. Geralt tried to stop it, but it rose up in his chest like a roaring beast straining against its leash. He clenched his jaw and tried to contain his voice.

“You call what happened to you a blessing?” he growled.

The lute playing stopped. The sudden silence weighed bitterly upon Geralt’s shoulders.

“I was just joking,” Jaskier said. He had always been bold to the point of suicidal stupidity, but now he shrank slightly into himself, watching Geralt like—like a deer watched a wolf. “Of course I am very grateful that you rescued me. I—without you, I would be…”

Geralt looked away. The angry thing inside his chest gnawed restlessly at his ribcage.

“I don’t need your thanks,” he said shortly. “I will help you break your curse, and that will be all. I need to bring the princess to Kaer Morhen.”

Jaskier’s smile returned, if not as carefree as before. “Princess Cirilla, the Lion Cub of Cintra,” he said, and strummed a triumphant cord on his lute. “I had wanted to see her after she was born, you know. But Queen Calanthe banned me from performing in her kingdom, and also hung any bards who dared sing of the White Wolf in her hearing. No doubt the tyrant was trying to outrun destiny, too. May she rest in peace. I take it that you’ve finally accepted your rightful daughter?”

“She’s not my daughter,” Geralt said. “She’s Pavetta’s. I’m only protecting her because she has no one else to turn to.”

Jaskier’s eyebrows raised in disbelief. “And I’m a horse’s ass! Come now, Geralt, I’ve been here for three hours and I can already tell that you love that child like she’s your own.”

That was crossing a line. Geralt uncurled from his seat against the wall and snarled like a wild animal.

“Whoa, okay!” Jaskier threw his hands up. “Easy there, Geralt. What did I say wrong? Your criticisms are generally constructive, would you care to tell me what the problem is?”

Geralt settled back down with a sulky glare. He struggled to find the words. “Assuming I did love her,” he said, “what good would it do?”

Jaskier stared at him like he’d just spoken in Elder Speech.

“Alright, let’s pretend I’m terribly slow and don’t know anything.”

Geralt scoffed. “‘Pretend.’”

“Explain it to me,” Jaskier insisted. “What _harm_ would it do if you loved her?”

“You wouldn’t understand,” Geralt said dismissively. “Love to you is a pretty bauble you can play with when you’re bored. It’s not like that for me.”

“Then what is it like?”

Jaskier’s eyes were unbearably soft with concern. Geralt sighed. The angry thing shifted in his chest, and he rubbed absently at the ache of it with his thumb.

“It’s like…a chain you cannot break,” he said slowly. “A length of rope with a noose at both ends. If I let it slip over my head—then I won’t be able to stop myself from tightening the knot.” He looked at where Ciri was sleeping, just a tiny nose and a crown of ash gray hair peeking out of the blankets. “I don’t want to hurt her.”

Jaskier watched him with an uncharacteristically serious face. “Then I’ve got bad news for you, master witcher,” he said. “Children need to be loved. Pretty soon she’ll be looking to you as a father, as a home. If you reject her, all you’ll accomplish is orphaning her again.”

“A lesser ill than the alternative.”

“I wouldn’t be so sure.” He smiled. “If you ask me, even the scraps of love I get are worth the years of heartache.”

There was some deeper meaning in those words that Geralt couldn’t catch. He felt a familiar pang—baffled, frustrated, fascinated. Jaskier looked at him steadily with those vivid blue eyes, pushing, always pushing, always turning Geralt’s world onto its head. He was still doing this to Geralt after a fifth of his unnaturally long life.

Geralt tore his eyes away and got up to check on his gear, drying by the fire.

“If love comes so easy to you, I’m surprised the curse didn’t break when you clapped eyes on the first person in town,” Geralt grumbled in a transparent attempt to change the subject.

“I’m not _that_ easy to impress!” Jaskier huffed. He crossed his ankle over one knee and rested his chin on his fist, staring at the ceiling thoughtfully. “But to be honest, I was surprised too. I thought I did love Arielle, as much as I’ve ever loved anyone I wooed. But the curse didn’t break even after we kissed sweetly, or professed our undying mutual love, or fucked—"

“Clearly that’s the problem,” Geralt cut in. “You say you love almost everyone you meet. But to break the curse, it has to be true love.”

“It _is_ true!” Jaskier said, dramatically offended. “Don’t give me that bollocks about true and faithful meaning you only ever love _one_ person. It’s pure chauvinism, is what it is. Men only invented chastity to keep ownership of women’s wombs. Nobody could possibly only love one person at a time, I don’t believe it.”

Geralt grunted. He had heard Jaskier lecture about this before, at length, multiple times, and though he agreed on one or two points, he didn’t want to hear it all again.

“The Countess,” Geralt said. “What about that Countess you’re always chasing?”

Jaskier perked up. “The Countess de Stael, dazzling wit and beauty of all the spheres, you mean?” He wilted back down. “She called my latest epic ‘disappointing as cold porridge.’”

“Is it different with her?” Geralt asked.

“What? Of course it’s different. She’s one of a kind, the Countess de Stael. Did I tell you that my first ever poem was about her? My first serious poem, I mean—and it was truly terrible, I could barely write my own name, but even then I showed a certain flair for lyrical—"

“Focus,” Geralt growled. “Is it true love with her? As in—when you look at her, you can’t look away. Can’t even think of anyone else.”

Jaskier blinked at him, and then looked contemplative. “Well, when you put it that way. Maybe. Is there more to it?”

“You’re the one with the love poems,” Geralt grumbled.

“But you’re the one with knowledge about love in magic,” Jaskier pointed out. “‘It has to be true,’ he says. Enlighten me on what precisely that means.”

Geralt wracked his brains for when he had encountered similar curses in the past, decades ago. “It’s…consuming, that kind of love. Two lives willingly molded into one. Two broken pieces that fit together just so. Nobody else will do, at all hours you are only thinking of the other. With just a glance of her eyes, you would follow her anywhere. She infuriates you, excites you, but she also brings you peace. Even when apart you find yourself thinking of her, dreaming of her, trying to find her—"

 _Scent_ , he completed the thought in his mind, and realized he had been describing Yennefer. He was hit, once again, by the painful memory of Yennefer walking away from him on the mountain. He slammed the lid back on that box immediately. The angry beast in his chest paced, restless.

Jaskier was leaning forward in his chair, watching him raptly. His hand covered his mouth, and his face was cast in shadow, but his blue eyes were very bright.

“Go on,” he said softly.

Geralt scowled at him. “I’ve gone on enough, bard. Well?”

Jaskier blinked slowly. “Well what?”

“The Countess de Stael,” he said impatiently. “Is it true love?”

“Oh.” The sound was somehow hollow. Jaskier looked down at his feet, and from across the room, Geralt heard his heart do something complicated.

“Does it have to be reciprocated?” Jaskier finally asked.

It was a fair question. But for the first time, Geralt felt some tendrils of unease. For some reason it hadn’t occurred to him that someone so close to Jaskier would _not_ love him. When he wasn’t getting into trouble, humans and near-humans alike always flocked to him.

“Yes,” he said.

Jaskier was silent for long enough that Geralt was growing truly concerned. Finally, he looked up and smiled brightly at Geralt. “Then the Countess de Stael is indeed my best chance!” he agreed. “She may call my music ‘frivolous’ and bestow her favors capriciously upon that weasel Valdo Marx, but she has always welcomed me with open arms when I am in need. I am sure she loves me, deep down in her heart. Thank you, Geralt, for all your help. You are a true friend of humanity, pointing us poor fools in the right direction, no matter how little we deserve it.”

He stood up and started walking toward the door.

Geralt straightened, confused. “Where are you going?”

Jaskier paused with his hand on the door. “I’m going to see the Countess,” he said, like it was obvious. “I only have five days, like you said, and the Countess is three days from here. No time to lose.”

Geralt had to take a deep breath and close his eyes for a moment to stop from yelling an obscenity. Ciri was still sleeping.

“Jaskier,” he said, enunciating each word carefully. “You can’t travel alone when you’ll turn into a swan at dawn.”

Jaskier just squared his shoulders, lifting his chin in challenge. “Of course I can. People love swans! I’m sure I’ll figure something out.”

In three long strides, Geralt crossed the room and placed his hands on Jaskier’s shoulders. He looked straight into that handsome, expressive, stupendously idiotic face.

“You aren’t even wearing shoes,” he said, and it physically pained him that he had to say this out loud. It physically pained him to even think about Jaskier wandering the streets alone at night in only Geralt’s ugly old clothes, with his bare, bruised feet. “Stay. I’ll bring you to the Countess before the new moon.”

Jaskier stared at him. His throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“I thought—but aren’t you in a rush?” he asked, oddly hushed. “I don’t want to be a burden, or—or get you mixed up in some nasty court politics again. You’ve already done so much for me.”

Geralt squinted at him, trying to understand this unusual reticence. After decades of trailing his coattails, Jaskier typically jumped at any opportunity to get Geralt to do him a favor.

But—ah, yes. There was more than one memory locked away in the box with Yennefer, wasn’t there? Jaskier had been on the mountain too. He had been trying to tell Geralt something, to teach him about hope, about happiness. And that angry beast in Geralt’s chest had broken loose and attacked. The Butcher of Blaviken, leaving blood and stones in his wake again.

Geralt released Jaskier and took a step back.

“I’ll take you to the Countess,” he said. He studied the wooden door rather than looking at Jaskier. “Stay.”

Jaskier shifted uncomfortably from foot to foot. “I—I’ll be okay, Geralt, really. You don’t have to feel responsible for me. I can find my own way.”

Speech was getting more and more difficult. “Jaskier. _Stay_ ,” he repeated. He didn’t know what else to do.

Jaskier hesitated, then raised his hand. He gave Geralt’s chest a friendly, awkward pat, and then his hand just—lingered there. A spot of warmth spread over Geralt’s unnaturally cool skin.

“Okay,” Jaskier whispered. “I’ll stay. Don’t worry, okay? I’m not going anywhere.”

Geralt really had no idea what he was feeling, or what might come out of his mouth if he opened it. So he just grunted.

Jaskier lifted his hand, and the warmth immediately faded. “Right then. Why don’t you get some sleep, Geralt? I’m well aware that even witchers need their rest. I’m still not tired, of course—I can keep watch for tonight, get back into composing.”

Geralt finally managed to look up. Jaskier was watching him with gentle, open concern. He sighed. Jaskier was right. He hadn’t slept properly in months and was exhausted.

“Don’t wake anyone with your singing,” he muttered. “I promised the innkeeper silence at night.”

Jaskier scoffed. “What an ungrateful audience. Fine, fine. Nobody will hear me. I shall be quiet as a mouse. I shall be—”

Geralt dug through his pack and tossed a bag of biscuits at Jaskier.

“What’s this?”

“If you get hungry before dawn,” Geralt muttered. He had intended the biscuits for Ciri, but they could always get more.

“Thank you, Geralt,” Jaskier said, voice shining with amazement.

Geralt grunted. He crawled onto the bed next to Ciri and flipped the wet towel on her forehead. The girl was still burning up. He wiped some of the sweat off her face and laid his cool hand on her cheek, frowning at her. She wasn’t a helpless babe—13 was a decently large age for a human, as Geralt vaguely understood—but she still felt so small to him. He lay down on top of the covers and instinctively curled around her.

Gods help him, he had no idea what he was doing. None of this, Ciri, Jaskier, Yennefer, none of this was remotely within his comfort zone. All his training and mutations couldn’t have prepared him for this, not in a thousand years. Destiny was a right bitch for dropping all these tangled responsibilities into an unqualified witcher’s lap. At least Jaskier, as a human who had managed to survive a couple decades, understood how to treat the common cold.

Behind him, he heard Jaskier strumming the lute again. The light, tinkling sounds danced through the air, and below it, softer than a whisper, he could hear Jaskier humming in his throat. Gradually, the tension left Geralt’s body, and he relaxed around Ciri.

He managed a few hours of light sleep, interrupted a few times by the sound of Jaskier happily munching his biscuit, feeding the fire, and shuffling around, and for a last time when Jaskier set down the lute at dawn. Geralt rolled over in time to see a bright flash of light, and then Jaskier was a swan again, stretching his wings. He somehow still looked like an insufferable troublemaker as a swan.

“Hmm. Forgot to ask. Are you still all there, bard?” Geralt asked sleepily.

The swan waddled up to Geralt and preened, a clear yes. Geralt had to smile.

“Yes, yes, you’re a very pretty swan.” He reached out and gently scratched Jaskier’s neck feathers with a finger. Jaskier made a pleased whistling sound. “We’ll go when Ciri wakes up. Sleep.”

Jaskier settled on the floor in a patch of pale sunlight. Geralt slept a few more minutes, then got up to negotiate breakfast with the innkeeper and check on Roach. He spent a few moments longer than usual with Roach puzzling out how best to transport both a feverish girl and a swan. He carefully inspected the surrounding area for suspicious movements, and then decided it was safe enough for him to leave Ciri and Jaskier alone in the room for an hour or two. He found the marketplace and managed to acquire some fresh fruit after helping a farmer track down some runaway chickens. He returned to the inn, checked the sun’s progress in the sky, and woke up Jaskier and Ciri.

“We should head out soon if we want to make Talence before dark.” He peeled an orange for Ciri and gave Jaskier a bit of bread. “Then onwards to Cidaris.”

Ciri looked confused. “Cidaris?” she asked in a hoarse voice.

Geralt nodded. “To lift Jaskier’s curse. His true love is there.” Hopefully.

“That’s weird,” Ciri said nonsensically. “I thought…”

But Geralt did not get to hear what Ciri thought, because she was now staring at Jaskier, utterly fascinated. Geralt sighed and let her hold the bread. Making a show of it, Jaskier plucked the bread out of her hand delicately. Ciri’s emerald eyes turned huge.

“Would it be rude to pet you?” Ciri asked.

Jaskier bowed his neck with exaggerated elegance, a motion which was somehow exactly the same as the way Jaskier bowed to royalty when he had hands and feet. Ciri ran her fingers carefully over his white feathers. She giggled, and for a moment she was only a girl, not an orphan of war and tragic destiny.

The thing in Geralt's chest coiled tight. But not in anger—it was a feeling that he could not name, a song he'd never learned the words for. Perhaps Jaskier would have known, but Geralt was no poet. He simply brushed a thumb over that aching spot again, turned to pack their gear, and quietly let himself smile.


	3. wishing it was make-believe

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I found out while writing this chapter that Tchaikovsky was both gay and horny on main, and Hans Christian Andersen was both gay and full of tender queer longing. Clearly my subconscious was onto something when I came up with this plot. Anyways, look them up, Andersen's love letters made me cry.

The best part of being a swan was the flying.

Of course, Jaskier would very much rather _not_ be a swan. But if he had to be a swan, then he was certainly going to take advantage of its perks. He was an _artiste_ , after all. Bizarre and uncomfortable experiences were but fuel for his creative genius.

For example: Jaskier could sneak up behind people and _honk_. Swans had a tremendous pipe on them, it turned out. Jaskier made a man who was harassing Geralt yelp like a babe, started a panic among the town guards, and even caused a bandit to drop his axe onto his own toe. It was excellent fun.

Also fun was acting pretty in front of a crowd. People of all ages seemed to love it when a swan miraculously appeared before them, and if Jaskier did the swan equivalent of batting his eyelashes, he was guaranteed to have a free meal thrown at him. That is, as long as none of the people were hungry enough to want to make _him_ into a meal. Then it was time for Jaskier to hasten back to Geralt and Ciri before someone tried to pluck his feathers. It was not so different than performing as a bard, in that respect.

But the flying—yes, this was definitely the best part. The wind rushed in his feathers like an old friend, and he felt strong and sure, soaring high above the world until all things that used to be familiar were now only indiscriminate color and shape. The sky was so clear and beautiful in the eyes of a bird. Up there, he could forget about that awful month trapped in the lake; he could forget how miserable it felt to be unable to speak all day; he could forget about all his vexing human mistakes and attachments. His soul was just a bird’s soul. The only thing he desired was to see what lay beyond the next hill, and the next hill, and the next.

It was a bit troubling, actually, how easy it was to forget he was still a human and belonged on the ground. Occasionally he would spot Geralt and Ciri on the road, and with a guilty jolt would remember that he was supposed to be travelling with them to break his curse, that he was supposed to _want_ to break his curse. And with a rush he would remember that of course he wanted that, he was a human, after all, not a swan! He would flap down and land on Roach’s back in front of Ciri, settling his webbed feet on the reassuring earthiness of leather and dirt. Geralt, who walked beside Roach, would narrow his eyes at him, like he knew something wasn’t quite right. But they never spoke about it.

Well, _Jaskier_ tried to talk about it, one time. But he was a swan, so what actually happened was that he hopped onto the ground, flapped his wings at Geralt’s face, and trumpeted feelingly. It was supposed to mean, _My dear witcher, there seems to be something on your mind, and I suspect it may even be the same thing on my mind, and wouldn’t it be nice if we actually discussed it?_ Geralt, of course, was too thick to understand. He only batted Jaskier’s feathers out of his face and grumbled, “Now what?” in his usual long-suffering tone.

But then. But then he reached out and cuffed Jaskier softly under his beak.

The touch was enough to melt his heart into pudding and, damn him, he forgot what he had been trying to tell Geralt because Geralt was _touching_ him, and he would really like him to do it again. Jaskier honked and waddled closer, quite literally getting underfoot. And Geralt, to Jaskier’s shock, actually obliged. He brushed the top of Jaskier’s head with a tiny huff of laughter before stepping around him.

“Come on, Jaskier, get on Roach before she steps on you,” he said without even a trace of annoyance.

So. That was a thing. The touching.

It was one more perk of being a swan—or perhaps it was a curse? Jaskier wasn’t sure. For whatever reason, Geralt was much more open with his affections while Jaskier was a swan. At times he was downright tender. He seemed oblivious to the fact that he was, in effect, gently stroking his beautiful sword-calloused fingers back and forth over Jaskier’s nape. It was driving Jaskier mad, but what was a poor bard to do? He wasn’t about to make him _stop_.

Thankfully, Jaskier was preoccupied most of the time by talking to Ciri. The princess was recovering from her fever, and they traveled slow and took frequent breaks so she could rest. On the first night, after Jaskier was in human form again, Ciri tugged on his sleeve and asked: “Why do you need to go to Cidaris?”

There was something almost accusatory in her tone. Jaskier leaned down so he could meet her eyes and explained, “Because the magnificent Countess de Stael is there, and she’s the best person I know to break my curse.”

Ciri’s pale forehead wrinkled. “Her? Are you sure?” she asked, with what Jaskier felt was an unfair level of skepticism from a 13-year-old.

“Yes, quite sure,” he said firmly. “The Countess will be able to help me.”

“Hmm,” Ciri said. She appeared to mull this over, before nodding to herself. “You must love her even more, then.”

Jaskier had no idea what she was talking about, but that had never stopped him from running his mouth before. “Of course,” he said. “Just you wait. With one glance from her, this curse will break like—like clay pots in a bar fight!”

Ciri rolled her eyes at this line, which was admittedly not very good. She shot a glance toward Geralt, who was bartering with a local fisherman for a place to sleep tonight. She shuffled closer to Jaskier.

“How long have you known Geralt?”

“Oh, decades,” Jaskier said proudly. “Even though he can be an insufferable blockhead sometimes.”

“Will you tell me about him, then?” Ciri asked. “I don’t think he likes to talk about himself. He won’t even properly explain to me what a witcher is. There’s so much I don’t understand. Could you teach me?”

He hadn’t explain anything to Ciri, at all? Jaskier glared at the back of Geralt’s head in outrage. As if he could sense Jaskier’s feelings with his spooky witcher senses, Geralt turned around and glared back. Ciri just looked steadily up at Jaskier with a proud tilt to her chin, daring him to make fun of her ignorance.

“Please. I want to know everything,” she said.

Jaskier smiled warmly at her. “Your wish is my command, Princess.”

It soon became clear that Queen Calanthe had either hidden or actively lied to Ciri about many things that were now extremely relevant to her life. And Geralt was just hopeless. So Jaskier took it upon himself to tell her everything that he knew: magic and monsters, elves and men, the White Wolf’s exploits, the Law of Surprise. He even stuck to the facts, more or less. Ciri was an excellent listener and asked questions in all the right places. Jaskier adored her. Geralt, of course, argued with him about some of the pesky details, but was _Geralt_ spinning all these chaotic and violent happenings into a beautiful epic narrative that could be easily digested and remembered? No, no he was not, the boorish oaf. Ciri _obviously_ preferred Jaskier’s version of the story, no matter what Geralt thought.

During the day, when Jaskier couldn’t speak, Ciri would pet Jaskier’s feathers and hold halting, one-sided conversations about her life in Cintra and all the pain she had witnessed since her kingdom fell. Jaskier would rest his head on Ciri’s shoulder and listen quietly. It seemed to help her, to talk about it in this manner. Later Geralt might ask careful, probing questions about one of the things Ciri had said, help her talk through it more fully.

The night before they were due to arrive at the Countess’ house, Jaskier decided to sing. He managed to sweet-talk the proprietress of a cozy little inn into giving them a room in exchange for a few hours’ entertainment. To Jaskier’s delight, Ciri was feeling almost completely well again, and insisted on staying up to listen. He would get to perform for royalty tonight.

Jaskier found some scraps of colored cloth to turn Geralt’s drab shirt into something a bit more festive and bard-appropriate. Ciri watched his hands curiously as he worked, and he let her hold the needle and thread to make the last few stitches. He put on his new shoes, which Geralt had oh so generously stolen from a freshly dead bandit (he still shuddered to think of it). While Ciri and Geralt got their dinner, Jaskier took only a swig of beer to wet his throat. He tuned the strings of his lute and sang a few warmup scales.

Then he hopped onto the nearest empty table and launched into a merry rendition of “Toss a Coin to Your Witcher,” one of the classics.

Upon hearing the first few stanzas, Ciri laughed so hard she almost choked on her soup. Then she was singing along at the top of her lungs, picking up the lyrics as she went. Geralt determinedly ate his dinner with a stony expression on his face. Soon the whole inn (except Geralt) was roaring, _Toss a coin to your witcher / O valley of plenty!_

Ah, yes—cheap beer, wood smoke, and the sounds of revelry. How he had missed this, after those horrible weeks of choking silence and stagnant water! Jaskier was finally in his element again. He played the epic of Geralt of Rivia defeating the Selkimore. Pulled out a few local variants of drinking songs and love ballads. Danced from table to table singing a jig about a hobgoblin playing pranks on the master of his house. Sitting hunched at the table, Geralt’s face grew progressively more constipated (no doubt because the epic was exaggerated, the folk songs were too bawdy, and hobgoblins didn’t exist). Jaskier winked at him. Ciri finished eating after a few songs, and by the second verse of the jig, she had found a few other children in the inn and was dancing with them in a circle, laughing like she had never known anything but joy. She was going by Fiona at the moment, with her distinctive hair bound up and covered by a cap like a boy. It felt like they could afford to feel safe.

The candles burned lower, and Jaskier slowed down his pace. As he paused to drink more beer and rest his voice, the lovely townsfolk crowded around him.

“What do you call yourself, bard?” they asked.

“Ah, yes.” He floundered for a moment. Ciri was on the run from Nilfgaard, wasn’t she? It would probably be best not to draw too much attention. “My name is Dandelion. I’m a traveling bard from the, uh, south. Wonderful to make your acquaintance.”

The folk nodded in immediate sympathy. “Fleeing the south, eh?” they said. “Aren’t we all.”

“Told you it couldn’t be _the_ Jaskier,” one of them muttered, nudging her companion. “That dandy is probably playing at some fancy court. What would he be doing in this backwater inn?”

“But I swear, he sounds just like him,” her companion replied. “And the bard’s been missing for a month. He could be anywhere.”

“Or he could be dead. Nilfgaardian spies must’ve gotten to him,” someone else said.

“I’ll wager he was stabbed in a bar fight.”

“ _The_ Jaskier? Nonsense! He’s been imprisoned by a man he’s cuckolded.”

“Or eaten by one of the monsters in his songs.”

“You forget, the White Wolf is so fond of him, he’d never let his dear bard come to harm.”

“Perhaps they’re on an adventure together right now. You know, I always thought there was something more to those two…”

Funny how something could be both perfectly accurate and horribly misinformed. Jaskier cleared his throat and summoned a charming smile. “Alas, but the great Jaskier is not here! I am only Dandelion, yet sweet Dandelion can sing just as well. Have you any requests?”

After a few more tunes, Jaskier drifted toward Geralt. The witcher sat at the table in the corner nursing a pint of ale, a spot of stillness in the bustle of the inn. No petty gossip could touch his noble witcher. He was calm where Jaskier was frenetic. Just looking at him made the world seem more stable, more tethered. Jaskier slid into the seat across from him. His fingers itched to grab onto something, preferably Geralt’s hand. He grabbed Geralt’s pint instead and took a long drink of the witcher’s ale. The deadpan stare Geralt gave him was very gratifying.

“Are you finished singing yet?” Geralt asked, in the tone of one bracing oneself for another hour of trudging through a muddy, smelly bog.

“So this is the thanks I get for sweating all night for our room!” Jaskier said in mock offense.

“Never asked you to do that,” Geralt grumbled.

“And therefore you should be doubly grateful that I volunteered. At least Ciri has better taste in music than you.”

They both looked to Ciri. She had stopped dancing now and was chatting amiably with the other children. As they watched, she yawned into her hand.

“I should put her to bed,” Geralt said. “When are you joining us?”

“Excellent question.” Jaskier made eyes at some of the more flirtatious townsfolk. “I’d say it’s not up to me.”

Geralt looked grimly resigned. “I’m not going to explain to anyone why they went to bed with a man and woke up with a waterfowl.”

“Geralt, ye of little faith! Of course I’ll be back before dawn.”

“I’m not chasing off any jealous husbands or wives, either.”

“I _promise_ to be the very soul of discretion.” He pressed his hand to his heart dramatically. “Please, Geralt. This whole month I’ve only been with _one_ person who, it turned out, was actually an evil lake, so if I don’t get to enjoy some of the finer things in life _very soon,_ I fear I shall actually die.”

Geralt laughed. A burst of noise, quickly cut off, like he had surprised himself. He shook his head. “Then you’d be the first recorded case of a man actually dying of blue balls. Tell me, is it so hard for you to show a bit of restraint?”

“Restraint! Restraint is boring,” Jaskier said with a dismissive gesture. “I serve that fickler mistress, Inspiration. For her I would throw myself into the whims of Chance and Fortune at a moment’s notice!” He leaned forward on his elbows and gave Geralt his biggest, most winsome smile. “Besides, if I had a little restraint, I wouldn’t have met _you_ , dear witcher.”

This did not have the desired effect of making Geralt smile again. “You’re lucky that the worst thing you’ve ever run into was me,” he said flatly.

“What, you?” Jaskier almost laughed, but then he looked at Geralt’s serious expression and forced himself to actually think about what was being said. “Geralt. Self-deprecation is very unbecoming on you. It ruins your complexion, which is already dangerously wan. I assure you that Arielle was much worse than you could ever be—and _she_ was nothing compared to that time I was abandoned in the desert with only a wagon full of frankincense and myrrh. Oh! Or the time I was kidnapped by pirates and nearly walked the plank. I had to perform blindfolded and upside-down that time, which sounds fun in theory but was not nearly so fun in practice.”

“ _Jaskier._ ”

Jaskier sealed his lips shut obligingly and blinked up at Geralt. But, frustratingly, Geralt did not seem inclined to say more. He only kept brooding.

Jaskier felt the need to be careful with him. He very much did not want a repeat of the, ah, _incident_ on the dragon’s mountain. For one, he actually needed Geralt’s help right now, and for another, it was a pleasure beyond description to be travelling together again. But despite all the time they’d spent together, he really didn’t understand what went through Geralt’s head sometimes. Tentatively, he leaned forward to touch his fingertips over Geralt’s hand.

“Surely you know, Geralt, that you are the best thing I’ve had the good fortune to come across in all my life.”

Geralt looked—startled. Why would he be startled? Has Jaskier been such a poor friend that Geralt didn’t realize this? His hand slipped out of Jaskier’s light touch and curled against his chest, and his eyes ducked down briefly before meeting Jaskier’s eyes. He looked almost _bashful_.

_Oh, be still, my heart!_

“I just helped with a few songs,” Geralt said gruffly. “You always change the stories anyways.”

Well, yes, the songs. But of course he enjoyed Geralt’s company for much more than what songs he could write about him. He knew that, didn’t he? He had to know.

“But this can’t go on forever,” Geralt went on. “Someday you’ll run into the kind of trouble that nobody can save you from. That’s not worth another song or two.”

Jaskier perked up. “Could it be? Is master witcher _worried_ about me?”

Geralt sighed heavily, and reached out and snatched back his pint of ale. “I wouldn’t have to, if you just learned how to keep out of trouble like a normal, reasonable human.”

Jaskier rested his cheek in his palm and beamed up at Geralt. “I suppose you’re right. Someday, the story of Jaskier’s glorious adventures has to end. But that day is not today.”

Geralt grumbled something offensive and drained his ale. Jaskier stared at him shamelessly, the way his hair framed his gorgeous cheekbones, tinted in the firelight like burnished bronze, the way his throat bobbed as he swallowed.

“I’m going to fetch Ciri,” Geralt said, wiping his mouth.

Jaskier blinked out of his reverie. “Hm?”

“I said I’m going to fetch Ciri.” He reached out suddenly and flicked Jaskier’s forehead. Jaskier jumped and stared at Geralt in outrage, mouth agape. Geralt rolled his eyes. “Don’t forget to eat dinner before you go ‘enjoy the finer things in life.’ I know how you get.”

“I—oh.” That was the type of thing Jaskier would definitely forget. “When did you become such a mother hen?”

Geralt didn’t even fight it. “Having a Child Surprise really brings it out in you.” Without another word, he got up and called Ciri to him. Yawning again, she trotted up to take his hand. She waved at Jaskier as the two of them left. Jaskier waved back, smiling.

After they were gone, Jaskier felt oddly adrift. There were still things he wanted to talk to Geralt about. Frankly, he could talk forever with that man, and it was only partly because he loved the sound of his own voice. He almost regretted choosing to spend the night with someone else instead of going with him and Ciri, and watching over them as they slept.

That first night back from Arielle’s captivity, Jaskier hadn’t been able to sleep. The sight of Geralt curled around his rightful daughter had been so unbearably sweet, so unspeakably precious. Jaskier’s mind and heart wouldn’t stop racing. For the whole month at the lake, he had not been able to create any new music. Even if he’d had the hands and the freedom, his time with Arielle was a blur of despair, fear, and worst of all, boredom. There was nothing Jaskier hated more than being imprisoned in one place, cut off from the rest of the world. It was a kind of death. If Geralt hadn’t rescued him, Jaskier would certainly have gone mad—body and wings pinioned, drowning even as he breathed.

But then Geralt was back, and Jaskier was free again, and he had spent that entire first night feeling a devastating mixture of elation and nostalgia and yearning. Words and music had come pouring out like a river breaking free from its dam. He hadn’t had time to review the work properly, but he knew what he had written. The song was already inside him. It was, quite possibly, his new greatest classic.

Perhaps now would be a good time to try it out.

The people at the inn were a good combination of full and inebriated now. Their cheeks were still flushed from the jigs, but they’d had time to cool down. Jaskier opened with a bit of light banter, and then strummed a few chords, easing the mood quieter, quieter, into the contemplative portion of the night. This next song was a tragedy, after all.

“What do you know about mermaids?” he asked the crowd.

Jaskier sang about a princess of the sea. All she had ever known was her kingdom underwater, but she heard that there was a whole world up above, a world of land and two-legged people, a world she longed to explore. Then a prince came sailing over her kingdom, a human prince. His sailors were wicked, and they caught the mermaid princess in their nets—but the prince rescued her and set her free. He was noble and kind, and he set her free. And the princess fell in love.

Jaskier had his eyes closed. He didn’t remember when he closed them. He opened his eyes and saw the folk watching him raptly, so quiet that he could hear the sound of the fire crackling, the floorboards creaking. He cleared his throat, which felt oddly thick, and kept going.

The princess was desperate now to travel the world above. In the cover of night, she fled her kingdom and traded her beautiful voice for a pair of legs, and she came ashore looking like a lovely human girl. Every step she took felt like knives cutting into her feet, but she persevered. She learned how to dance. So passionate was her dancing that she became famous in the human kingdoms, and finally the prince came to see her perform. The two of them became friends. The princess joined his court as a dancer, and their friendship deepened. Soon there was nobody the prince trusted more than her.

The mermaid princess was so happy, and so in love. If only she could tell him how much she loved him! But alas, she had sold her voice long ago. And the prince, oh—the prince was to marry a princess from another kingdom. He would never love her like she loved him. The day came when the prince sailed away for his wedding, and how the mermaid princess wept, how she rent her hair and stomped her feet, how she cried out with a silent voice for her love to stay…

Jaskier felt like he was dragging a deep and nameless emotion out of the depths of his heart. The music ebbed and flowed like the tide, and he was only barely staying afloat. His throat felt raw, and his eyes stung. He hadn’t expected this song to take so much out of him. It was a good feeling, though—cathartic. He had been right about this song being a classic.

Then he looked up, and nearly swallowed his own tongue.

Geralt was watching him from across the room. Jaskier’s heart made a jackrabbit start, and almost at the same time, Geralt’s eyes narrowed. He heard that. Oh, no. Oh, treacherous heart. Jaskier started to sweat. What was Geralt reading into the song? Was there something incriminating in the lyrics? No, surely not. It was just a fairy tale, just like all the other songs Jaskier has written and performed in the witcher’s hearing. It didn’t mean anything. There was no reason for Jaskier to be nervous. So why was Geralt looking at him like that, like he was looking into his very soul?

He had paused for too long, and the folk were getting impatient. The show must go on. Blindly, he grabbed a beer that was sitting by his elbow and drank to unstick his throat. Then he took a deep breath, and continued.

A storm came upon the prince’s ship as he sailed. The mermaids underwater saw that the prince was in danger, and came to tell the mermaid princess on the shore. In despair, she flung herself into the ocean and used the last of her magic to appease the storm’s wrath. The prince survived, eventually reaching the kingdom of his future wife. But the mermaid princess dissolved into seafoam. The other mermaids finally told the whole story to the prince, and when he heard what his dear friend had sacrificed for him, the prince wept, declaring that he would have loved her back if he only knew.

Jaskier strummed the last chord of the song and looked up, and his heart skipped with a curious mix of disappointment and relief. Geralt was gone.

Well. At least the townsfolk seemed to have enjoyed the song. They broke into praise and applause, and half had tears in their eyes. He smiled at everyone and bowed deeply, and many of the good people scraped together some coin for him even though they were clearly going through hard times. He was grateful, and buoyed by their energy. An apple-cheeked man came up to him and offered his bed for the night, and Jaskier was about to happily agree, when a serving boy suddenly appeared and shoved a bowl of soup into his hands.

“That ugly cat-eyed guy told me to give this to you,” said the boy with a scowl. “Told me to make sure you ate it all, too. What’s his deal, huh?”

The soup was steaming and rich with meat and vegetables.

“Oh,” said Jaskier. He found himself momentarily speechless. “I don’t, he, uh…”

The boy looked at him expectantly, and gestured at the soup. “Well?”

Jaskier sat down and ate. It was the best meal he’d had in over a month. The apple-cheeked man kept talking to him cheerfully, but now that Jaskier was forced to stop moving, he felt suddenly exhausted. Perhaps…perhaps he had reached his limit tonight. He didn’t like to admit it, but even he needed to take breaks from performing sometimes. The next time he was propositioned, Jaskier graciously declined.

Instead, he made his way to the room he had booked for Geralt and Ciri. He dithered at the door for a moment, picking at stray threads in his shirt. But there were people passing back and forth through the hall, the inn’s staff and late-night travelers, and he had to go in eventually. Jaskier huffed out a breath and opened the door.

Geralt was sitting on the edge of the bed with his eyes closed, meditating. Ciri was already asleep, her back turned to them. When Jaskier entered, Geralt opened his eyes and tilted his head at Jaskier, an evaluating gaze.

“Didn’t think I’d see you till the cock crowed twice,” he said. His voice was a rich, low rumble.

“Yes. Well. Here I am,” Jaskier whispered back. He set down his lute. The bed was far too small for three people, so Jaskier went to make up the pallet on the floor. “I think I’ll turn in early, after all. It’s been a long day. Oh, and it’s not much, but the people were very generous with their coin tonight—here, I’m sure you and Ciri will find it useful—”

Still crouched down, Jaskier turned to give Geralt the pouch of money, and paused. Geralt was standing over him, his face difficult to make out in the lamplight.

“That was a new song, wasn’t it? I heard you writing it the night before,” he said quietly.

“Oh. You recognized it?”

“Yes.”

Jaskier felt helplessly pleased. “Tonight was the first time I ever performed it. Did you like it?”

“Hmm.” Geralt seemed to hesitate, and then crouched down so he was eye to eye with Jaskier. “I’ve been thinking about something Arielle said.”

Jaskier put down the money. He had a bad feeling about where this was going. “Arielle…? Why?”

“She said, ‘Butcher of Blaviken, you’re only going to break his heart all over again.’ What did she mean? How did she know who I was?”

Jaskier’s blood ran cold. He flapped his hands, trying to cover up how his heart was attempting to fly into his throat and sink through his stomach at the same time. “Oh, that. How should I know? I didn’t even know she was an ondine. She used some kind of evil magic, probably. But it doesn’t matter, because we’re never going to see her again. Isn’t that right, Geralt?”

Geralt’s face was unblinking, calm. Too calm. This was Geralt’s ‘witchers-have-no-emotions’ face, the one he used when he was in fact having _too_ many emotions but was trying to be professional about it. Like Jaskier was a particularly troublesome witcher contract.

“Jaskier, tell me honestly,” he said. “Am I your—” He winced to himself, breaking the emotionless façade. He tried again. “Is there a chance I could break your curse?”

Lilit the Damned. The poor witcher couldn’t even say it properly. Jaskier skipped playing coy and plunged straight into fight or flight response. He leaped to his feet.

“You? No!” he yelped, his voice soaring to impressive heights.

Geralt leaped to his feet too, a look of sudden panic on his face, and pointed urgently at Ciri. They both held their breaths waiting to see if she would wake up. But she didn’t even stir.

Jaskier rounded on Geralt, doing his best to keep his voice a whisper. “Don’t be ridiculous. It’s not like I told Arielle that you were—ah, anyways, I’m sure she only knew you because you’re in all my songs.”

“Yeah. I am, aren’t I?” Then Geralt repeated, with heavy emphasis: “ _I’m in all your songs_.”

Oh, this was horrible. This was awful. “Haha,” he said. “Well, not—not _all_ of them, obviously.”

“But more than I ever realized.” Geralt took a step forward. “That mermaid song. Tell me if I’m just being an arrogant fool, but…when you wrote it, were you thinking about me?”

Jaskier made an involuntary strangled noise. It was as good as a confession. Geralt raised his eyebrows. Jaskier felt his face flush bright red, and he buried his face in his hands like a child.

“Fine, fine. There’s no hiding the truth from you when you’re like this. Yes, you were the person I held closest to my heart when I wrote that song. You always are. Surprise!”

There was the sound of a sharp indrawn breath. And then some moments of silence, which dragged on unbearably slow to Jaskier.

“Oh, go on then,” he finally groaned, “put me out of my misery. Tell me it’s hopeless. You wouldn’t be the first person I admired to reject me, I promise I’ll be reasonable about it.”

He heard Geralt sigh. Cool fingers wrapped around his wrist and tugged his hand down. He peaked up and found Geralt looking at him like—like he used to, before Yennefer, before Queen Calanthe’s banquet, when it was just the two of them and a whole continent of creatures and magic and endless possibilities.

“I believe I owe you an apology,” Geralt said slowly, his words oddly formal.

Jaskier swallowed. “No, I was the one who decided not to tell you. And I know you’re rather dense in the area of, uh, c-courtship.”

But Geralt shook his head. “That’s not it. I’ve said some things to you…things I didn’t mean. More than once. I was—I couldn’t understand why you didn’t just leave. But I have no excuse. It was small-hearted and cruel.” He squared his shoulders, and then looked into Jaskier’s eyes with riveting sincerity. “I’m sorry. But if you can still bring yourself to trust me—then I can help you now, Jaskier.”

Jaskier blinked rapidly. At Geralt’s apology, a weight on his shoulders vanished, a weight he hadn’t even realized was there. Hope began to flutter desperately in his chest. “Do you really mean that?”

“Yes. I’ll break your curse. Tell me what you want, and I’ll give it to you.”

Being the sole focus of Geralt’s attention was rapidly sapping Jaskier of his ability to reason. Language, his greatest ally and oldest friend, fled. All he managed to stammer was, “But you said it has to be reciprocated.”

“It does,” Geralt agreed. “But I don’t think that’s as big of a problem as you feared.”

Jaskier’s head was swimming. This was an unimaginable scenario. He hadn’t even dared to picture it in his _dreams_. Geralt was still holding Jaskier’s wrist; his other hand reached up and stroked down Jaskier’s jaw. Jaskier’s breath stuttered out, as he tried and failed to keep up with what was happening.

“Thought I knew my lot in life,” Geralt muttered. “Blood and stones. That was my world. But then you came along, talking of destiny and pleasure. Drives me crazy sometimes…”

He touched Jaskier’s neck, over the thin scab where his silver sword had nicked him. Shivers ran up Jaskier’s spine. Automatically, he arched his neck into Geralt’s hand.

“If you want,” Geralt said haltingly. “After the curse is broken. If you want, you can come with me.” He looked at Jaskier with a kind of unpracticed tenderness. “I’m taking Ciri to Kaer Morhen. It’s where I became a witcher, the closest thing my kind have to a home. You can—I’ll talk to Vesemir. It’s safe there, you’ll be safe from the war. And you can meet the other witchers, they have better stories than I do. You could write songs about whatever you like.”

Jaskier had a most curious sensation of falling. This was everything, but this was—this was too much, this wasn’t the way things were supposed to go. No. No, this wasn’t what he wanted at all.

He laid his palms on Geralt’s chest and pushed. It felt rather like pushing a brick wall, but Geralt immediately stepped back.

“What’s going on?” Jaskier squeaked. He cleared his throat. “This isn’t like you, Geralt.”

Geralt’s expression soured. “What do you mean? It’s just me.”

“No, you’re—the White Wolf, bound by destiny to the princess of Cintra and the most terrifying sorceress in the world, you wouldn’t just— _fall in love_ with a _bard_.”

Geralt closed off. It was like a door slamming shut. His face was a blank slate, severe and inhuman. “The White Wolf is the thing in your songs, it’s not me. Believe me or don’t. But work with me, Jaskier, I’m trying to break your curse. Tell me what you want.”

“And what do _you_ want?” Jaskier put his hands on his hips and lifted his chin with an arrogance he didn’t feel. “Go on, Geralt. If you’re really being honest, then say the words you’ve been avoiding this whole time.”

“What? I don’t—I just told you what I want.”

“You want me to come with you to Kaer Morhen?” Jaskier snorted. “A lovely idea, I’ll grant, but let’s be realistic. I’d drive you and myself mad in a fortnight, stuck in the middle of nowhere like that. You’re just saying this because you want to break my curse.”

Geralt pulled his lips back in a snarl. “You don’t believe me. Of course. Why am I surprised? Everybody knows that witchers don’t have feelings.”

“I know you have feelings, Geralt. But for _me_? Come now. You can’t even say the words.”

Geralt squeezed his eyes shut. “You are infuriating sometimes. _What words_?”

Jaskier took a breath. “Say that I’m your true love.”

There was a moment of weightless silence.

“I…” said Geralt. Jaskier watched his jaw clench and his brow furrow. “You know this is hard for me.”

Jaskier crossed his arms, bitterly triumphant. “You can’t say it, can you?”

“I’m _trying_.”

“Was it this hard with Yennefer?”

“It took years with Yennefer,” Geralt snapped. “I only managed to open up with her because of _you,_ and then she left the second she found out the truth.”

“Yes, and I’m sure that was very difficult for you, especially since you turned around and kicked down the only person in the whole wide world who might have supported you through it. But alas! We don’t have years, we have two nights.” Jaskier spread his arms wide. “So lay it on me, witcher. Tell me you love me like I love you.”

Geralt took another step back, a full-body flinch. His eyes hopped around the room, not focusing on anything, like a skittish animal. “Why did you say it like that, like it’s a—a punch to be thrown? It’s not like you. You…you’re fighting this. Why are you fighting this?”

“Because I don’t want to be tied down,” Jaskier admitted. “And I don’t want you to be tied down, either. What did you call it—a noose around both our necks?”

“That was—” Geralt grimaced. “I can deal with that later. You’re going to turn into a swan forever, Jaskier, that’s kind of more important.”

“Yes, well, frankly,” Jaskier said, lifting his head proudly, “quite frankly, if I had to choose between being your garrotter and being a swan, then I’d rather be a swan.”

Geralt ran a hand through his hair. “You’re not—that doesn’t—fuck. Why is everything with you always so difficult?”

“And now you just sound like my mother.” Jaskier patted Geralt on the shoulder and then briskly stepped around him. “Anyways, I still firmly believe it’s possible to have more than one true love at a time. I’ll try my luck with the Countess de Stael. At least she’s told me she loves me before, that counts for something, doesn’t it?”

“Jaskier, if that doesn’t work, you have to let me at least—”

“I don’t have to anything.” Jaskier spun around, and Geralt was looking at him with a pained twist to his mouth. Jaskier’s heart softened.

“Listen, Geralt,” he said quietly, gentling his voice. “I’m sorry you had to find out this way. But it’ll be alright. I didn’t tell you my feelings because I never intended for us to actually be _together—_ I mean, we’ve been getting along just fine all these years. There’s no need to cause some kind of…irreversible damage to our friendship, just because of my, ah, temporary magical affliction. I’ll just do what I’ve always done—admire you from afar. Think of it like…a harmless infatuation.”

“Infatuation,” Geralt repeated.

“Harmless,” Jaskier stressed.

Slowly, Geralt sank down to sit on the pallet. He put his elbows on his knees and dropped his head into his hands.

“You,” he said heavily. “Drive me. Absolutely. Insane.”

Jaskier nodded. “Exactly. We would never work out. Best not to even consider it.”

Geralt didn’t move from his position of defeat. After a considerable silence, he said, “I’m too tired to keep arguing with you. The more you talk, the less sense you make.” He sighed. “Just…go to sleep. We’ll talk more in the morning.”

Jaskier looked at the pallet Geralt was sitting on. “Uh. And where will you be sleeping?”

Geralt dropped his hands and glared up at Jaskier, his eyes glinting gold. “Wherever it pleases me,” he growled. He passed a hand over his face and looked away again. “Go to sleep, Jaskier.”

“Right, right.” Jaskier glanced at Ciri’s bed, but felt it would be a bit rude to sleep there—it was Geralt’s spot, really. He edged around Geralt’s brooding figure and nudged at him with his foot. Geralt didn’t move. Well, he would surely get up to join Ciri in bed eventually. Jaskier resolutely ignored him, crawling into the unoccupied side of the pallet and shutting his eyes. Despite the stressful conversation, he was still exhausted, and fell asleep quickly.

He woke up sometime in the hazy dawn to the sensation of someone touching his cheek. Awareness swam like a dream just beyond his fingertips—was that Geralt, laid down beside him? Or just his imagination? Dream-Geralt pressed his lips into Jaskier’s hair and whispered, _This is real. This is real, Jaskier. Please believe me._

Jaskier, fighting off sleep, opened his mouth to say—

The transformation hit like a block of ice to the brain. One moment Jaskier was Jaskier, and the next moment reality warped so that Jaskier was a swan. He could almost feel his soul being compressed and kneaded into the proper shape. It wasn’t painful, exactly, it was too foreign to identify as pain, but it was certainly uncomfortable, and always left Jaskier dizzy and disoriented for half a second. He struggled free of the pesky blankets and clothes and wobbled to his webbed feet, looking around.

Geralt was already up. He looked like he hadn’t slept at all, really. He was packing their gear for travel. After counting out the coin Jaskier earned last night, he grumbled, “We’ll reach the Countess this evening. I’ll get breakfast. Wake Ciri up.”

He was out the door without a backward glance. Jaskier blinked at the door as it swung shut. He felt lighter already—being a swan tended to do that, to change his perspective on things.

So. Geralt knew how he felt. But that was no matter. He could just fly away, if it really got to be too much. In fact—he _should_ fly away, probably. Poor Geralt was going to worry about Jaskier endlessly if he didn’t stop this now, that was the nature of his noble heart. And Geralt couldn’t afford distractions like that, not with Ciri in his care. Speaking of Ciri, the princess needed to get to Kaer Morhen as soon as possible! Cidaris was still peaceful, but Nilfgaardian spies could be anywhere. It was a huge and unnecessary risk to bring Ciri into a large city like Cidaris. Oh, what had Jaskier been thinking? He’d been so caught up in enjoying Geralt’s company that he didn’t think of the obvious best course of action. There was no need for Geralt’s help now that he was so close to Cidaris. He could, nay, he _should_ fly away now. He’d reach the Countess faster traveling by himself, anyways.

And besides, if this curse really depended on true love—then he had better leave quickly, before he ended up loving Geralt too much for anyone else to ever save him.

Jaskier rooted through his bag and found the letter he had prepared for the Countess. With some genius maneuvering of beak and feet, he tied the letter securely to his leg with a ribbon.

“Jaskier?” Ciri asked, sitting up and rubbing her eyes.

Jaskier flapped over and tapped his beak to the window.

“You want to go out?” Ciri yawned, leaned over, and opened the window for him. She didn’t notice the letter tied to Jaskier’s leg. “Say hello to the other children if you see them. They were nice to me last night.”

Jaskier leaned up and nuzzled her neck with his beak. She giggled and ran her fingers through his feathers. What a brilliant girl. He would miss her. Hopefully he would get to see her again in the future, on the road or in high court, him making his rounds with the nobles, her and Geralt on their next grand adventure. Briefly, he wished he could be there to watch her grow up…but that wasn’t the life for him. No matter.

Jaskier hopped off the ledge and flew away.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Oh, you thought Geralt was the dumb one in this relationship? You fool, you


	4. we just gotta hold on tonight

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I don’t know if the Countess de Stael in the Witcher is meant to be based on the real-life historical French badass Germaine de Stael. But my Countess de Stael definitely is.
> 
> Also, a small warning: Ciri gets pretty upset in this chapter. Sorry :( There's also slightly less than canon-typical levels of violence.

Geralt felt something was wrong as he was walking up the stairs of the inn. Like something in his ribs had wrenched loose. He took the stairs up two at a time and started to run, and then he heard it.

Ciri was crying.

Geralt burst into their room and swept Ciri into his arms without conscious thought.

“What is it?” he asked. His face probably looked terrifying, but he couldn’t bring himself to back away. His eyes darted around the room, searching for monsters in the shadows. “What’s wrong?”

“Geralt, I’m sorry,” Ciri sobbed. “Jaskier left and it’s my fault.”

For a brief, confusing moment, the words cut like a dagger into his chest. And then he controlled himself again, and started to look around properly. None of their belongings had been disturbed. The window was open. There was no sign of Jaskier, but also no sign of violence.

“Did he…fly away?” he asked.

“I opened the window for him,” she said miserably. “I thought he just wanted to fly around. I shouldn’t have opened the window.”

So it was not an enemy attack. Ciri had not been discovered, Jaskier had not been captured. Geralt felt intense relief, and at its heels, a growing sense of unease. Something wasn’t right.

“His lute is still here,” he said slowly. “He never goes anywhere without it. He likes to cause mischief around town sometimes, doesn’t he? He should come back within the hour.”

“Not this time,” Ciri said. She lifted her head, and her eyes shone with a strange green light. “I know. He’s not coming back.”

Geralt frowned at her. He stepped away to grab Jaskier’s bag and then upturned it onto the floor. Cloth scraps, two apples, and some unmarked loose paper that Geralt had helped him get. The truth of it stared out at Geralt from the tiny pile of odds and ends.

“The letter isn’t here,” he said. “The letter to the Countess. He flew away to bring it to her.”

Without them.

“I’m sorry,” Ciri repeated.

“It’s not your fault, Princess.”

He wanted to scream in Jaskier’s face. The great clod had made Ciri cry. Last night Geralt had even hoped…well, it didn’t matter what he had hoped. Evidently Jaskier was going to pursue his own selfish idiocy no matter what Geralt wanted. His heart felt brittle, like a field of dry nettles.

Actually, he should have expected something like this, after Jaskier transformed into a swan in his arms—evidence that his pathetic attempts to express himself were not enough to break the curse. Jaskier didn’t need someone who was too cowardly to even confess properly. And both of them were accustomed to abruptly appearing and disappearing from each other’s lives in their many years of mutual wandering. But to leave _now_ , fleeing out the window like a guilty paramour, without even saying goodbye to Geralt— _or Ciri_? It would have hurt less if Jaskier had clawed open Geralt’s chest with his lute pick.

He swallowed all of this down. He took the great flame of his anger and betrayal and determinedly smothered it. Ciri was his priority right now. He had a job to do.

“It was a fool’s errand from the start,” he said tightly. He bent down and gathered Jaskier’s belongings in his bag again. “Forget about him. We’re close enough to Cidaris that Jaskier can make it to the Countess by himself, anyways. We’ve spent too long being distracted by this nonsense. I need to bring you to Kaer Morhen.”

But when he looked at Ciri, she was standing with her fists clenched in her trousers and naked fear on her face.

“You mean we’re just going to—leave?” she asked, with a note of shrill panic in her voice. “We can’t just leave him. What if the Countess isn’t his true love? What if he turns into a swan forever?”

“Then that’s his own fault for leaving first,” he snapped, balling up Jaskier’s bag and throwing it into the corner. He grimaced, and wrestled his emotions back down. “He’ll be fine, Princess. Either way, the Countess is in a better position to help him than me. She knows his friends, his connections. Stop worrying. He’s not our problem anymore.”

“But he needs _you_ ,” she insisted. “He wrote all of those songs for you, he said he loves you. Can’t you help him?”

Geralt had a horrible realization that he knew exactly what she was talking about. He got to his feet. “Did you hear us arguing last night?”

“I didn’t mean to,” she said. “Please don’t be angry.”

“I’m not angry.”

But Ciri kept crying. Fuck, Geralt was just making this worse. How was he fucking this up so bad. Fuck. He made an abortive motion toward her, but became paralyzed by his own fear of messing this up even more. Something was upsetting her, more than just Jaskier being gone.

“I don’t understand,” said Ciri. “You said everyone knows witchers don’t have feelings. Is it true?”

“Everyone lies. Of course we have feelings.”

“Then how can you just leave behind someone you love? Is it because of me? Because of the people coming after me?”

“No, that’s not…” Geralt cast around for the words. “It doesn’t matter how I feel,” he tried to explain. “It’s just not worth it to get involved with other people. You have to look out for yourself, Princess.”

Ciri’s face crumpled. “You were supposed to be different,” she said, in a quiet, fearful voice. “Everyone else is already…”

Carefully, Geralt crept forward and knelt in front of Ciri. “Already what?”

Ciri’s eyes seemed to pierce through Geralt like needles. “Everyone I’ve ever loved has left me,” she whispered, like this was her darkest, most damning secret. “Because I ruin everything I touch. It’s true. And now I’m ruining you too.”

Geralt saw how earnestly she believed this. And it was like dropping into the icy waters of Loc Muinne in winter. This was the kind of belief that could drive even a child to madness or suicide. It was a seed that would bury deep and curl choking, poisonous vines around Ciri’s entire life. Geralt knew, because he had seen it happen to countless other boys in Kaer Morhen, and had seen the evidence of its devastation in the eyes of every witcher who had survived the Trials. It had happened to himself.

 _Children need to be loved,_ Jaskier had said.

Geralt’s mother had not loved him. How else could she abandon him to suffer the hell of becoming a witcher? By turns, he was furious at her for lying to him, and furious at himself for believing her. For a long time after his Trials, he was afraid something essential had been broken in him. He had survived when so many had died, but he was too numb to grieve. Perhaps it was true that witchers had no heart. Perhaps love, for him, would only ever be a fairy tale that other people told. Perhaps it was what he deserved.

And then love came like a melody, spinning him in circles, a happy familiarity. And love came like a thunderstorm, shaking him to his bones. They didn’t believe him, nobody ever did—but he was gradually recognizing the truth for himself. He was not broken. It was not too late for him.

And it was not too late for Ciri. He would not let it happen to Ciri.

“I’m sorry,” he said. “I didn’t mean it like that. Look at me, I’m not ruined at all. You don’t need to be afraid.”

She bit her lip and stared at Geralt, stubborn and mistrustful and still so scared. Her face was a mess of tears and snot. Geralt had loved her since the moment he first saw her in the woods; he must have loved her for his whole life. He loved her so much it _ached_.

And he knew that he had to take the chance. He had to make sure this one person believed him.

“You’re the best thing that could have ever happened to me,” he said. He reached up and cradled her cheeks in his palms. “None of this is your fault. I’m not going to leave you. No matter what, I won’t leave you.” He took a deep breath. “I love you, Ciri.”

Ciri’s eyes widened. She looked into Geralt’s eyes, and then suddenly threw her arms around him and shoved her face into his armor. She clung tight to him, trembling. Geralt hugged her back.

“I love you, too,” Ciri said.

And nothing terrible happened. Nobody abandoned anybody. Ciri was not dragged down into the brutal misery of a witcher’s life. They were just holding each other.

It was a new thing. It was all so new, but somehow it was also the most natural thing in the world. Had he ever said those words to someone before? He couldn’t remember. Why had he been so afraid of saying it to Yen and Jaskier? Something in his chest that had been knotted and snarled tight for so many decades finally loosened.

“I love you,” Geralt repeated, just for the pleasure of being able to say it. He stroked his daughter’s hair, soothing. Her trembling relaxed. “I don’t blame you for anything. We’ll find a way together, I promise. Do you believe me?”

“I believe you,” Ciri said.

Eventually, they separated and washed the tears away. Geralt split breakfast between the two of them, wrapping up and storing the portion that had been for Jaskier. Ciri was quiet, watching Geralt with bright eyes. Geralt ate his bread and cheese, and waited.

When she finished the meal, Ciri finally spoke.

“What are we going to do now?”

Geralt hummed. He crossed his legs and examined his daughter. “What do you want to do?”

Ciri mirrored his posture. With grave conviction, she said, “I want to help Jaskier. I don’t want to keep losing people.” Then she hesitated. “Geralt…what do you want?”

“I want to keep you safe.” Ciri’s face started to fall, but Geralt’s lip twitched into a smile. “I also want to give the idiot bard a piece of my mind. No reason not to do both.”

He didn’t know what else he could say to Jaskier, after being so clearly rejected. Possibly he would just punch him in the gut. But a deeply buried part of him needed to say his feelings at least once, properly, in a way that Jaskier could believe.

Besides, it would have been worth it solely for the way Ciri started to smile, shining brighter than the dawn. Geralt flicked her forehead. Ciri made a noise of protest, and Geralt turned away to hide the way he was smiling.

His eyes landed on Jaskier’s lute. Carefully, he picked it up in his rough hands. It was rare to see the instrument beyond arm’s length from its owner. Would Jaskier really have left this behind? It didn’t bode well for the way the curse was progressing. He wrapped the lute carefully in his cloak.

“Alright, Ciri,” he said. “Get ready. We’ve got an appointment with a Countess.”

* * *

The Countess de Stael was an impressive woman by all accounts. She had ample limbs and an ample bosom, rivaled only by the voluminous curls of her hair, which she frequently wrapped in brightly colored cloth and arranged in a magnificent tower on top of her head. When she walked through a room, even the servants stopped what they were doing to stare. Once, a man had threatened to choke her for her insolent tongue, and she had kicked him in the balls and verbally eviscerated him in front of the entire noble court of Cidaris. Jaskier had been madly in love with her since he was 16. Her hair was starting to turn gray now, but she was still as strong and cheerful as an ox.

She read Jaskier’s letter explaining his current predicament, and wouldn’t stop laughing for five minutes straight. Jaskier, being a swan, could only strut around the garden and honk irritably. This only made her laugh harder.

“My dear boy,” she finally said, wiping away tears of mirth, “your timing is perfect. I could use a pet swan right now.”

Feeling some trepidation, Jaskier whistled a question. De Stael smiled wickedly at him.

“Did you think I would help you for free? You have quite a bit of heartache to make up for, you know.”

Jaskier spent the next hour terrorizing people at de Stael’s behest: court censors, rival intellectuals, and a tax collector who apparently was snooping around her grounds too close for comfort. Swans were very large, especially when they flapped their wings in your face, and their snapping beaks were very intimidating. Jaskier quite enjoyed himself.

He was surprised to discover how things had changed around de Stael’s chateau since the last time he had visited, around three years ago. She still had many admirers, but her enemies had greatly multiplied.

“That one’s a Nilfgaardian spy,” she explained about her latest target of swan harassment, while steering Jaskier to her private study. “They’ve been crawling all over my grounds since I started writing about that new Emperor of theirs. It’s fantastic. It means I scare them. The world will fall into madness if we let those fanatics take what they want, and I’ll keep fighting back even if I’m the last person on the Continent who still has command of her wits.”

She asked the servants for privacy and closed the door to the study. Then she had Jaskier perch on an ottoman so they stood eye to eye.

“Now then, darling. I’ve had my fun, and you’ve done a very good job. Let’s see about breaking your curse.” She pet his neck affectionately.

“Julian Alfred Pankratz, Viscount de Lettenhove, famously known as the troubadour Jaskier, I do declare that I love you truly.” To punctuate the sentence, she leaned forward and pecked a kiss on his beak.

They waited.

They waited some more.

De Stael’s eyes glinted with humor and sadness. “Oh, dear. I was afraid it would be like this.”

Jaskier gave a despairing honk.

This was impossible. The great Jaskier, the most eligible bachelor in all the Continent, defeated by a curse about love? Poetic in a way, but also sharply humiliating. Oh, why was it so hard to find somebody who fit Arielle’s requirements?

De Stael clicked her tongue. “Don’t be like that. Perhaps when we were younger I would have been able to break the curse, but I’m afraid my heart has grown heavier with age. I can no longer toss around my affections so lightly.”

Surely the Countess had not fallen in with Valdo Marx!? Jaskier honked in alarm.

She laughed. “No, actually, this is an excellent opportunity. You can’t open that clever mouth of yours and talk us both into circles. I never told you why I left you that last time.”

Jaskier shifted from webbed foot to foot. He very much wanted to object, but de Stael was right, as she usually was. Not being able to speak, he was now forced to listen.

“I called it off because I knew you would not stay. At first I thought I wouldn’t care about such things—let the living live! Performance was your lifeblood, so of course you would travel, and as long as you came back to me I thought it wouldn’t matter what you did outside my view. But this idea was short-lived.”

De Stael sat down in a couch next to Jaskier and smoothed her gorgeous plump fingers down his back. He shivered. She looked him sternly in the eye.

“You kept looking past me, Jaskier. You were drifting away even as we spoke. The poems you wrote me glittered for a moment and then faded like the morning dew. Some part of me wanted you to stay, despite myself—but you had no such desire. Your mind was on other things: your songs, your fame, that witcher you kept tagging along with. The first chance you got, you would be off again without a backward glance. It was like I was competing with a rival lover for your attention, and I was losing. I don’t much like losing. I decided that I had better think hard about what I _really_ want, instead of what I felt like I _should_ want, and pursue that with my whole heart. You are not my true love. Now I know for sure. More than anything, I want someone who will stay just for me.”

As she spoke, Jaskier felt his spirit sink down, down, straight down through the floor. The Countess de Stael was the person who understood him best, who he had loved the longest. He had thought that if anyone could solve the riddle of this curse, it would be her. But now he was doomed. If this was what true love meant, then nobody would be able to save Jaskier.

Countless other lovers had told him something similar: that Jaskier was too capricious. Fun for a night, but not suitable for a true relationship. Flighty. When he was younger he had tried to change—had nearly gotten married once, in fact. But before he could commit anything to paper, he had been flooded with an overwhelming sense of horror at the thought of what he was doing, of binding himself to one person until death do them part. Of owning a manor, being beholden to a family, settling down to an existence anathema to who he was. No, no, this was not the life for him. He had run away from home that same morning. Soon after, he had met Geralt of Rivia, and he hadn’t looked back since.

He felt himself, on the road. Perhaps it was strange, and he had never found the words to explain it, but he _needed_ this freedom to go where the wind carried him. So he was careful, when he picked his lovers, to lay clear expectations for what he could provide. Care, respect, and pleasure, but not commitment. He avoided anyone who seemed inclined to want to keep him. Arielle had been an awful, awful mistake, and he absolutely blamed her for lying to him about her true desires. But she was one blemish on an otherwise spotless record (well, more or less) of not getting tied down.

Perhaps that was why he had panicked when Geralt offered a place beside him. Geralt was—special. In a lot of ways. With Geralt, Jaskier had steady friendship without romantic complications, which was rather rare in his life. He had exercised an uncharacteristic amount of self-restraint over the decades to make sure it stayed that way. If Jaskier indulged in the fantasy of going with him to Kaer Morhen, it would permanently change their whole dynamic. And that dynamic was delicate as it was, which Geralt had made painfully clear on the dragon’s mountain. Becoming lovers would destroy something, surely. Jaskier couldn’t risk that. A quick and anticlimactic tumble in the hay; Geralt’s bitter disappointment when Jaskier inevitably left; a frigid distance in their relations for the rest of Jaskier’s life; this was the last thing Jaskier wanted.

No. What he wanted was…

De Stael tapped his beak.

“You need to be honest with yourself,” she told him. “What do you really want? What does true love mean to you? Until you can answer that, you won’t understand how to break the curse.”

She rose to her feet and smiled at him.

“But I know you’re out of time. There are exceptions to every rule, even magic ones— _especially_ magic ones. I think I have an idea for how to help.” She snapped her fingers. “Alright, my pet, come along. It’s almost evening. Let’s find you some clothes.”

* * *

“Antoni of Vole, the famed mage of Cidaris. I am at your service, Countess,” said the old man, bowing shakily to de Stael.

De Stael smiled and curtsied back. “Thank you for your help, Toni, you’re such a dear.”

The old man gripped his cane and squinted at Jaskier. “And this must be…?”

Jaskier cleared his throat. “I am the humble bard Jaskier,” he said politely, offering his hand to shake. Antoni’s grip felt like gnarled sandpaper. “I have suffered a curse most foul, as the dear Countess has explained to you.”

Antoni hummed and bobbed his head up and down in an owl-like nod. “Animal transformation! Old magic, that. And the key to break it is true love! Oooh, even older. A very powerful spell.”

“Yes,” Jaskier sighed, “I am aware.”

“What we want to know,” said de Stael, “is if there is a way to break the curse without true love. Perhaps a magical loophole of some sort?”

Antoni chortled. “Having trouble in paradise? Ah, young people these days.”

“I am 41 years old,” Jaskier muttered under his breath.

“There is no way for you to find your true love? Nobody who holds your affection?”

Jaskier could not help but have a vivid flash of Geralt and Ciri curled around each other in the firelight, sleeping sweetly. He shook his head to banish that thought.

“Nobody who returns my affections—at least, nobody I can reach before the new moon,” he said.

Antoni tilted his head at Jaskier. The old man’s hazel eyes glinted with a faint yellow sheen, surprisingly sharp.

“I see. So that is why you are looking for a loophole. Well, you are in luck.” He waved his cane in the air. “This spell is all about the heart. The heart! Does the one you love not return your affections? Stab them in the heart, and the curse will lift,” he said, with what Jaskier felt was an unnecessary amount of relish.

Jaskier flinched at the mere idea. “Oh, no, nope, that is not an option!” he yelped.

“I should very much hope not,” de Stael said drily. “Any suggestions that do not involve murder, Toni?”

The mage hummed and bobbed his head again. He appeared to be thinking deeply for several long minutes.

“I will have to examine this curse more closely. Young man, the key lies in your heart. Perhaps I could read your heart and divine a solution that way.”

“Ah, yes, of course, read my heart,” Jaskier said. “What—what exactly does that mean?”

“It’s simple. I will ask you a question, and then I will watch the path your heart takes to the answer. This will allow me to observe how the curse is bound to your heart—the roots and tendrils of its design. Depending on the nature of the curse, I may be able to remove it from your heart with my own magic.”

Jaskier swallowed. “That sounds—I mean, if you are able to remove it, that would be wonderful, but I’m not sure I follow…”

De Stael squeezed Jaskier’s arm. “Don’t worry, pet. Toni hardly ever makes sense. But he has served my family for generations, and has proven himself trustworthy many times over. I think you should try it.”

“We need strict privacy for the reading,” Antoni continued. “This is to remove any possible distractions.”

“So I suppose I should step out of the room then?” de Stael said. “I will see to the servants. How long will this take?”

“No more than half an hour.”

“Wait,” Jaskier said, trying to keep up. “Are you going to—is this mind-reading? Will you see _everything_ in my heart?”

Antoni shook his head. “Not at all. I will only see how your heart answers my question.”

“And what is the question?”

He chortled again. “That is only for you and me to know.”

“And that is a sign for me to take my leave,” said de Stael. Jaskier looked to her in alarm. This was happening faster than he was entirely comfortable with. She rose to her toes and kissed him on the lips, a soft reassurance. “Chin up, Jaskier. Let’s at least see what the diagnosis is. I value your conversations much too much to trade you for a pet swan.”

He was not being given a choice, apparently. Jaskier took a deep breath. “Yes. Of course. Thank you for your help, Minette.”

With a final smile and a wave, the Countess left the room. Antoni hobbled to the door with his cane and slid the lock into place with a heavy _thunk_. Then he hobbled back toward Jaskier. Jaskier squared his shoulders as best he could.

“Well. Is there some kind of, uh, ritual to this?”

“No, all I have to do is ask,” Antoni said. He pointed his cane at the couch. “Please, sit down.”

Jaskier sat down on the couch and nervously watched Antoni approach. “Alright then. I suppose I’m ready as I’ll ever be. Ask away, dear mage. What is the question? Reveal my heart.”

Antoni did not reply. Now that Jaskier was looking closely, the old man’s eyes were most definitely yellow—a bright, animal yellow, not hazel like Jaskier had initially thought. Jaskier blinked. In fact, Antoni was not such an old man as he had at first appeared, either. As he walked, he seemed to rely on his cane less and less. His posture became stronger and firmer. His crooked back was straightening—no, more than that. He was growing taller. Bigger. Was Jaskier seeing things? Jaskier blinked again, and thought he saw a flicker of something like wings in the mage’s shadow.

The mage who hardly looked like Antoni at all anymore stopped inches away from Jaskier. Hypnotic yellow eyes filled Jaskier’s vision. He wanted desperately to back away, but his body was frozen where he sat. His heart thundered in his ears.

“Why did I see the face of Cirilla of Cintra in your mind?” the mage hissed.

It was like a hook dug into Jaskier’s mind and _yanked._ He remembered being rescued by Ciri and Geralt, telling Ciri stories about creatures and magic, leaving Ciri and Geralt in the inn outside Cidaris. And he knew that the mage could see these memories, like images reflected in water.

 _This is not about breaking my curse at all,_ Jaskier realized. _His goal is Ciri._

The mage smiled at Jaskier with too many mouths. “Incredible,” they said in a voice that warped and shifted even as they spoke. “I knew stealing the old man’s shape to spy on the Countess de Stael would be a good idea. But I never expected to catch sight of the Lion Cub herself.” They looked away from Jaskier. “Wycie!” they called.

Jaskier broke out in a cold sweat. This mage was not human, and they wanted Ciri. It couldn’t be for anything good. Jaskier had to stop them—he had to warn the Countess and protect Ciri!

“No thank you!” Jaskier said in a shrill voice, and brought his feet up and slammed them into the mage’s stomach. As the mage doubled over, Jaskier clambered off the couch and made a mad dash to the door.

Something grabbed Jaskier’s collar and tossed him back onto the cushions, as easily as flinging a bag of marbles. Before he could catch his breath, a woman loomed over him. She had a beaklike nose, striped brown hair like an owl’s feathers, and the same glowing yellow eyes as the mage. She grabbed Jaskier’s wrists and twisted them behind his back.

“Ow! Unhand me, fiend,” he yelped, but quickly stopped struggling when he felt the woman’s hooked talon encircle his throat.

The mage brushed themself off. “This is why I hate the energetic ones,” they muttered.

“You wretch,” Jaskier spat with false bravado. “You’re not Antoni of Vole. What are you?”

The mage looked at him. The edges of their body seemed to smudge. A dozen animal shapes seethed underneath their skin—things of wing, fang, and claw.

“My name is Sowa. Wycie and I are phoucas,” they said. “We serve the White Flame.”

Spies for Nilfgaard. Shapeshifters. And now they knew where to find Ciri, thanks to Jaskier’s memories. Oh, this was bad, this was very, very bad. Jaskier should never have left Geralt. He should have let himself become a swan forever at Arielle’s lake. He started to quiver, a full-body shake. “What do you want with Princess Cirilla?”

“That’s not how it works, bard. You asked me a question, and I answered. Now it’s my turn.” Sowa stalked up to Jaskier and captured him in those yellow predator’s eyes. “That man who’s protecting her. Who is he?”

The hook sank into his head again. Jaskier tried to resist, but the images were spilling out beyond his control: meeting a lonely stranger sitting in a bar in a town at the edge of the world. Washing away the blood of his history with a new name. Watching him slowly break out of his numb shell. Dreaming of going with him and his daughter to Kaer Morhen, home of the witchers, and wondering if maybe…

Sowa hooted with laughter. “Wycie, you won’t believe this. The famous Geralt of Rivia is in love with the bard. A witcher, in love! Have you ever heard anything more absurd?”

The fight left Jaskier all at once. “Stop,” he pleaded. “Get out of my head. Don’t do this.”

“Oh, don’t fret. I already have everything I need to know.”

Sowa grabbed him by the hair, forcing him to meet their eyes. They said something in Elder Speech.

Jaskier felt the familiar sensation of his soul being stretched and twisted into a new shape. He felt a burst of panic. That couldn’t be right—it wasn’t time yet for his transformation. Dawn was hours away! He opened his mouth to cry out, but all that emerged was a swan’s hoarse trumpet. Behind him, he felt Wycie adjust her grip to trap his wings against his body. Sowa wrapped their hand firmly around his long, delicate neck. Jaskier’s bird heart fluttered against his hollow ribs.

“Shh, shh, quiet now,” Sowa said. “There we go…”

Sowa’s hand turned into a soft paw, then a hoofed foot, then a bat’s wing. Their body smudged, like paints mixed in an easel. Jaskier watched helplessly as a dozen terrifying beasts flitted before his eyes. And then the image resolved into an individual human face—Jaskier’s own smiling face.

“How do I look?” the mage said in Jaskier’s cheerful voice. They smoothed back Jaskier’s soft hair and coyly blinked with Jaskier’s blue eyes. “No, don’t answer that. I know I look like a buffoonish fop.”

Jaskier wanted to cry, or possibly faint. He couldn’t let this happen. Everyone—Ciri, Geralt, de Stael—they were all in danger, while Jaskier was trapped here as a swan, and Jaskier’s own face was going to lead them to their demise. He couldn’t let this happen. Sweet Melitele, he would not!

Looking immensely self-satisfied, Sowa released Jaskier’s neck. They had apparently dismissed Jaskier as not a threat.

Jaskier snapped his head forward like a spring released from a trap. He fastened his beak around Sowa’s hand and, with all the fury of a swan whose family has been threatened, _twisted_.

Sowa yelped. Wycie smacked Jaskier on the head and effortlessly pried his beak open. She produced a cloth sack and tossed him in unceremoniously. Darkness blanketed the world. Jaskier honked again and again at the top of his lungs, wriggling with all his might. If only he could make enough noise, maybe someone would come help him—oh, there had to be _something_ he could do!

“I _really_ hate the energetic ones,” he heard Sowa say.

Jaskier managed to thrust his head out of the opening of the sack. But Wycie clamped her arms around his wings in a painfully tight grip, cutting off any possibility of escape. Sowa glowered at Jaskier, gripping their bleeding hand.

“Now you’ve done it,” they said, a beast’s growl rumbling in their voice. “I was going to let you keep your sense of self, too. But now you can kiss goodbye to the vapid human thoughts going through your vapid human head. The bard Jaskier is going to disappear, for good.”

Jaskier hissed at them, trying not to show his fear. So this was how he was going to die. If swans could have wept, tears would be flowing from his eyes. For 41 years he had lived life to the fullest: he had romanced a truly impressive assortment of humans and humanoids, climbed every mountain, sung for every court, eaten every food and drunken every wine. But there was still so much that he wanted to do. He did not want to die. Gods above, he did not want to die. He wanted to meet new people, write new music, see sights that had never before been seen. He wanted to watch Ciri grow up. He wanted to make Geralt laugh some more. He wanted to find out, at long last, if there was a place that was free and wild enough for Jaskier to call home.

Sowa began to chant in Elder Speech again. Jaskier opened his beak in a futile attempt to scream.

And then he stopped. He felt suddenly…confused. Something terrible was happening to him. Something terrible and wrong. He knew this, but he couldn’t remember…

What was he doing here? Who were these two people standing over him? The woman had him in a painful grip, trapping his wings. He hated her instantly. And was he in a sack? Had she put him in a _sack?_ He was filled with indignant rage.

“Wycie!” the other one said. “We won’t let anyone else steal our glory. Tomorrow, we will personally deliver Princess Cirilla to Emperor Emhyr. Tonight, we hunt a witcher.”

 _What’s a witcher?_ he thought.

And then he stopped being able to comprehend words. There were two creatures around him making gibberish, un-swanlike sounds. The swan disliked them instantly. One of them was pinching his wings. It hurt. Also, he was in a sack. This was both terrifying and extremely irritating. He was getting out of here as soon as he could.

And then the swan had no more thoughts.

* * *

Ciri held onto Geralt’s hand and kept her head low, so her cloak’s hood shadowed her face. It was not out of shyness, but out of strict caution in case somebody from Nilfgaard spotted her and tried to take her away. Geralt had made her promise to be do this if she wanted to see Jaskier. And she definitely wanted to see Jaskier.

Out of the darkness of the night, a woman holding a lantern appeared and introduced herself as the trusted handmaiden of the Countess de Stael. The Countess had received Geralt’s urgent message that evening, and had sent the handmaiden immediately to lead them in through the servant’s quarters. This way, they could stay hidden. Ciri watched her feet, trying not to trip, all the way until they reached the Countess’ private rooms.

The handmaiden ushered them into the boudoir and quietly left, shutting the door behind her. A familiar voice said, “Geralt?”

Ciri abandoned all caution. She threw back her hood and looked up at Jaskier, who was standing next to an impressive woman with a great pile of hair on her head. She must be the Countess de Stael. Jaskier’s eyes twinkled with merry mischief.

“And is that my dear Princess Cirilla?” he said.

“Jaskier!” Ciri shouted, and launched herself into his arms. Jaskier laughed and spun her in a circle. “Jaskier, you—you _blockhead_!” She pummeled his stomach with her fists. Jaskier made an _oof_ sound, and hastily covered his groin. “You scared me! I didn’t think I would ever see you again!”

“Oh, no, that was not my intention at all,” Jaskier said apologetically. “I’m so sorry, Princess. I never meant to scare you.” Jaskier smiled at her, so sweetly and earnestly that Ciri could not help but soften. “Could you find it in your heart to forgive me?”

Ciri felt tears prick her eyes. Ugh, so embarrassing. She shoved her face into Jaskier’s chest. “You. Are. An. Idiot,” she hissed.

“I am,” Jaskier agreed easily. He smoothed a hand through her hair. “I was so surprised when I saw Geralt’s message to the Countess. Why did you come?”

“I was worried about you,” Ciri said. “Also…” She turned to Geralt and raised her eyebrows at him expectantly.

Geralt was staring at Jaskier as if struck dumb. He was still standing by the door, rooted to the spot. Ciri rolled her eyes. She beckoned Jaskier down and whispered in his ear, “Geralt has something to say to you.”

Jaskier blinked, and looked up at Geralt. “Something to say?”

“Uh,” Geralt said. He cleared his throat. “You…you’re wearing black.”

The Countess’ eyebrows shot up to her hairline. Ciri wanted to smack Geralt in the mouth. What did _that_ have to do with anything?

“I am,” Jaskier said with a sweet smile. He spun in a graceful circle to show off his clothes. He wore an elegant black doublet and hose, finely trimmed to his figure, and judging from the redness of his lips, he had taken advantage of the powders and paints in the Countess’ chateau. Gold jewelry glittered around his neck. He looked prettier than Ciri had ever seen him. “Do you like it?”

Geralt looked faintly alarmed, which meant he was definitely panicking inside. His eyes darted briefly to the Countess. “Jaskier, did you…break the curse?”

“I am not his true love, if that’s what you’re asking,” said the Countess, her voice full of mirth.

Geralt inclined his head at her deferentially. “I’m, uh. Sorry to hear that. You must be the Countess de Stael.”

The Countess laughed. “And you must be Geralt of Rivia. The songs do not exaggerate—you’ve come to help us in our hour of need. You can stay as long as you like. Rest assured I am firmly against anything Nilfgaard, and will do my best to protect Princess Cirilla.” She turned and curtsied politely to Ciri. “It is an honor to offer my services to you, Princess.”

Ciri attempted to curtsy, but since she was wearing pants, switched to a princely bow. “The honor is mine. Thank you for extending your generous hospitality to us,” she said, just like Calanthe and Eist had taught her. De Stael beamed at her.

“So he’s still under the curse?” Geralt asked.

“Tragically, yes,” de Stael said. “I even brought in my family’s mage to see if there was any other way—but after examining Jaskier, he told me it was impossible. The only way to break the curse is to find true love.”

“Or to stab an unrequited love in the heart,” Jaskier added cheerfully. He smiled at Geralt. “But I’m sure it won’t come to that.”

“Hm,” said Geralt.

They stared at each other for a beat. The Countess looked between the two men and clapped her hands.

“Right then. Princess, have you eaten yet? Don’t answer that, you look famished. Let me speak to the cooks. I’ll see to your rooms too, get everything ready so you can rest easy for tonight. Please call on me if you need anything, anything at all. I’ll be back shortly!”

The Countess winked at Jaskier, and then bustled out the room.

Once the three of them were alone, Ciri took the opportunity to grab Geralt’s hand and tug him away from the door. She hissed up at him, “You were going to tell him how you feel, remember?”

Geralt glared at her. Then he turned to Jaskier and squared his shoulders. He squeezed Ciri’s hand for strength. Jaskier, for his part, just smiled at them indulgently.

“You left,” Geralt said flatly.

“I did,” Jaskier agreed. The smile dropped, and now he looked genuinely contrite. “I’m sorry. I don’t know what I was thinking.”

Geralt’s face was expressionless. But over the past few days, Ciri had gotten to know him much better—and she could tell he was just gathering his courage to speak.

“I was angry with you,” Geralt said. “I came here to tell you how angry I was with you. But now that you’re here before me, I…” His face softened. He sighed, and his shoulders dropped, like he was letting down a great weight. “I didn’t want you to leave, Jaskier,” he admitted quietly. “I never really do.”

He stopped there, seeming to search for something in Jaskier’s face.

Jaskier smiled. “Geralt,” he said, in a voice full of warmth. Ciri blinked. She had this strange, nagging suspicion that something was a little off about his voice, his expression. But before she could put a finger on why, Jaskier stepped smoothly forward, leaving just inches between him and Geralt. “That’s not really what you came all this way to say, is it?”

Geralt sucked in a sharp breath and stared at Jaskier, unblinking.

Jaskier stood on his toes and leaned in. “What do you want to tell me, witcher?” he whispered, a hair’s breadth away from Geralt’s lips. Ciri wondered if maybe she should look away.

Geralt’s throat bobbed. “I also,” he said haltingly. He fumbled at the straps of his bag, still staring at Jaskier, and only tore his eyes away to take Jaskier’s lute out. Carefully, he unwrapped his cloak from around the lute. “You left this behind, in the inn.”

Jaskier stepped back, looking surprised. “Oh. Thank you,” he said in a bewildered voice, and stared at the lute like he had never seen an instrument before. He reached out to take the lute.

Geralt’s hand shot out and grabbed his wrist. Jaskier stiffened immediately.

“What is this?” Geralt asked.

There was a bandage over Jaskier’s hand. Geralt flipped his hand back and forth to inspect it.

Jaskier laughed lightly. “It’s nothing! I just injured myself a little when I was talking to the Countess’s mage. Really, it’s nothing.”

“You’re lying,” Geralt muttered, like he didn’t even need to think about it. Ciri remembered Jaskier telling her about a witcher’s senses, that they could hear someone’s heartbeat, could smell their lies. “It’s not nothing. You need your hands to play your music. Let me see—”

Jaskier yanked his hand out of Geralt’s grip and took several steps backward. “I said it’s nothing,” he snapped in an unfamiliar tone of coldness.

Ciri stared at Jaskier in absolute shock. Geralt stood frozen for a moment, before slowly lowering his arms.

“Of course. I’m sorry.”

“No, it’s—it’s fine. I don’t know what came over me.” Jaskier tossed the lute haphazardly onto a cushion, completely unlike the way he usually treated the lute like an extension of his own body, and he smiled at Geralt like nothing had happened. “Is that all you wanted to say?”

Geralt shot a beseeching look at Ciri. _What am I doing wrong, help,_ his eyebrows signaled frantically. Ciri bugged her eyes out at him, meaning: _I have no idea what that was about either, why are you asking_ me _?_

Geralt turned back to Jaskier. “There was one more thing,” he admitted.

“What is it?” Jaskier asked, but the tone was all off. He was trying to smile again, but it was obvious that his heart wasn’t in it. The mood was ruined. Everything felt wrong.

Geralt set his jaw. Apparently, he was determined to soldier through to the end, no matter what.

“Jaskier,” he said heavily. He licked his lips. “I need to tell you. I—”

In the distance, there was a sound like an owl’s screech. And mixed in the sound, a man’s scream. Ciri felt her blood freeze.

Geralt reacted instantly. He twisted his head toward the sound and slid his silver sword out in a fluid motion, so fast that it was like he conjured it out of thin air. He stalked to the window and looked out into the black night, listening intently. His entire body was poised to strike or defend. Geralt the awkward, endearing person Ciri knew had vanished—there was only the witcher, the White Wolf.

“Geralt?” Ciri asked, her voice hushed. She could hear her own heartbeat in her ears, it was so quiet.

“That wasn’t an owl,” he said grimly. He turned to look at her and Jaskier.

Jaskier gasped. “The Countess de Stael,” he said dramatically. His eyes were huge. He sat down suddenly, like he was going to faint. “Oh, no. It has to be Nilfgaard—she’s one of their worst enemies. She said she was afraid there were assassins after her.”

Geralt cursed. “You think the creature is here for the Countess.”

Jaskier took a big gulp of air. He looked beside himself with worry. “Please,” he said, gazing up at Geralt. “Please save her.”

But Geralt didn’t move. “If Nilfgaard finds out we’re here, then we’ll be in danger too.” He looked at Ciri. “We should get out of here as fast as we can.”

Ciri just looked Geralt straight in the eye. She put a reassuring hand on Jaskier’s shoulder and titled her chin up, summoning all the courage of a princess. “You know we’re not going to do that.”

His lips twitched in a smile. A bit of Geralt the person peaked out through the witcher’s mask. Yes, he knew. Ciri wasn’t going to abandon people to die again, not if she had a choice.

“I’ll make sure the Countess is safe,” said Geralt. “Once I take care of the assassin I’ll be back as soon as I can.”

“Okay. I’ll protect Jaskier,” she promised. “Be careful.”

“You too.”

He nodded at her gravely, and she felt a warm glow of pride in her chest. And then he slipped out the door on silent feet and was gone.

Somewhere in the distance, there was another screech. The hair on the back of her neck rose. Voices throughout the chateau began to rise, people fearfully calling out to each other to try to locate the danger.

Ciri circled around so she could face Jaskier. “Are you alright?” she asked him.

He smiled at her. The panic was completely wiped from his face, like it had never been there. It felt very, very wrong. “Yes. That’s very kind of you.”

His mood kept shifting so rapidly. It wasn’t natural. “Are you sure you’re alright? You’ve been acting…weird.”

“Oh, is that so? I thought I was doing quite well.”

“What?” she said, confused.

Jaskier just smiled and shook his head. “We have all been waiting for you, Princess.” He stood up and beckoned. “Come. I have a gift for you. It was meant to be a surprise.”

“You’re giving me a gift _now_?”

Jaskier went to a window and unlatched it.

It was then that Ciri began to feel truly afraid.

“Jaskier,” she said, taking a step away from him. “What are you doing?”

Jaskier put his fingers to his lips and whistled.

A dark shape in the night flapped closer, and Ciri’s thoughts filled with dread. Had Jaskier betrayed them for some reason? Was he leading the monster straight to Ciri to eat her, to take her away? Was he being mind-controlled by an evil spirit?

And then the bird landed on the windowsill, and Ciri knew. She knew who he was.

She felt her magic crackle in the air around her, like a sheet of ice about to snap.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you,” the fake Jaskier said hastily, grabbing onto the swan’s neck. The swan— _Jaskier, it’s Jaskier!—_ didn’t even struggle. “Unless you want your friend to break some very important bones.”

The glass cups in the room stopped vibrating. She realized there was a new crack in the boudoir mirror.

“You’re a doppler,” she said, fighting to keep her voice steady and strong. It was happening again, how could it be happening _again?_

The fake made a moue of disgust. “I hate when people just assume like that. We’re both shapeshifters, true, but dopplers are so unsophisticated. My name is Sowa. I’m a phouca, a creature of a hundred beasts. I learned sorcery to steal the shape of humans—like this one here.” They shook Jaskier by his neck, and Ciri felt rage like a hot coal lodge in her throat.

“I won’t let you hurt him,” she spat.

“And I _won’t_ hurt him, if you come quietly,” Sowa said soothingly. Careful to keep one hand around Jaskier’s neck, they hopped out the window to balance on the outer ledge. “The glory of the Eternal Fire will be mine,” they said. “The White Flame guides my path. I will bring you to the one true Emperor.”

They held out a hand to Ciri and smiled, a feverish, deadly conviction in their eyes.

“You won’t make me hurt him, will you, Princess?”

* * *

Geralt slashed his sword out, and in the silence, the sharp ring of metal on metal felt loud as a thunderclap. The arrow clattered on the marble floor. It was speckled gray and brown, blending into the night, and it was of such perfect construction that when it sailed through the air, it made almost no sound. A human would never have noticed it until it was already lodged between their eyes.

Geralt was no human. He calculated the trajectory of the arrow. Whoever was shooting these was in the house with him, ducking through doors, lurking in the shadows. He could catch them. He scented the air and tracked the creature’s movements, running through the chateau like a bloodhound on a hunt.

Geralt slashed his sword again. Another arrow landed on the floor, this one cut neatly in half. A window was open in this room, a cold breeze blowing in. He climbed out onto the chateau’s roof and prowled across the property more slowly, cat-like eyes combing for a likely lookout spot.

A third arrow. This one he almost missed, its soft hiss barely audible underneath the sound of the wind. The arrow’s splintered remains tumbled off the roof and into the Countess’s garden. Geralt calculated the trajectory again, cursed, and kicked open another window so he could get back inside. This creature seemed to move almost as fast as their arrows. They were in one corner of the chateau, and then they had moved to another before Geralt could hope to pin them down. He considered the possibility that there were actually two of them, leading him on a merry chase.

Geralt rounded the corner, and another arrow came at him. But this one was so obvious and slow that he simply plucked it out of the air with his hand. He looked down at the cheap wooden arrow in his palm, and up at the creature who had shot this arrow—a human, probably one of the Countess de Stael’s hired guards. Geralt raised his eyebrows ironically.

The guard looked like he was going to piss himself.

“Wait! Don’t shoot him, you fool!” the Countess barked, hurrying down the hall to grab the guard’s arm. “That’s my guest!”

Geralt dipped his head in her direction. “Countess. I am glad to see you’re safe,” he said truthfully.

“And I am glad there is a witcher on my side.” She glared at the guard, who looked like he had in fact pissed himself and would very much like to be anywhere else right now. “I apologize for my man’s gross incompetence.”

“It’s fine. He couldn’t have recognized me,” Geralt said. “People mistake me for the monster all the time. I’m more concerned about getting you somewhere secure. Do you have any idea what’s attacking you?”

“No,” she said. Her eyes darkened. “It’s killed one of my people already. My valet, Jacques, a good man. He was found right there in the main hall with his throat torn open, as if by a claw.”

“A claw?” he echoed. Interesting. “No other wounds?”

“None that I could see. I thought it was some kind of wild animal at first. But now that you’re here, witcher—do you think it’s a monster that’s gotten into my house?”

Geralt paused. He narrowed his eyes at her. “You don’t think it’s an assassin?”

The Countess blanched. “What? An assassin? Why, to kill me? It’s true I have many enemies. But it had always just been spies, I thought.” She shook her head. “No, perhaps that thinking is naïve. I don’t know. Things have been getting much worse lately.”

Geralt frowned. He opened his mouth to ask another question, but then clicked his teeth shut and snapped his sword out in a bright silver flash. The wind made the Countess’s hair flutter. Another arrow smashed in pieces against the wall.

The Countess yelled in surprise, and the guard fumbled his own sword out. Geralt shot past them, but he could already see that the archer had fired from a sliver of a sightline from the open window of a nearby room. They would be long gone by the time Geralt reached them. Damn it. This chateau was terrible. Why did this place have to have so many open windows? He slammed the window shut and waved at the guard to put down his sword.

“It’s not a wild animal. Hard to use claws to shoot a bow and arrow.”

The Countess stared at Geralt, her hand pressed against her pounding heart. “So, it _is_ an assassin? A human? Here to kill me?”

Geralt pressed his lips thinly together. “We’ll see. Stay close by, Countess. Tell your guards to close every window and door in the chateau. Can you show me the body?”

The Countess led him to the main hall, where several pale-faced servants fretted about like a flock of frightened birds. They were ruining the evidence. Geralt suppressed a sigh.

“Can you tell everybody to stand still?” Geralt asked de Stael. “There might be footprints of some kind that I can follow.”

As the Countess called the room to order, Geralt approached the scene. There was a pool of blood near the stairs, where Jacques had apparently died. Dark red marks showed where they had moved the body to a place out of the way of foot traffic. A young woman knelt nearby with bloodstained hands, eyes glassy with shock. She must have tried to staunch the flow of blood, even though the man was already dead. Geralt knelt by the man’s body, and she focused enough to glare at him with hateful suspicion. Geralt let it slide coolly over his skin.

It did look like claw marks on the man’s throat. It also could have been a weapon. Three hooks had sunk deep into his jugular and torn across. Jacques had bled out quickly. There was also no sign of struggle—the attacker came up from behind, or moved so fast that he couldn’t do more than scream.

It was strange, though. Why didn’t the attacker just use an arrow to kill him, instead of taking the risk of attacking in person? The valet was no important target. And there was that owl-like screech, as if they had purposely tried to call attention to this man’s body. Were there two creatures here, acting as a unit? Were the arrows and this murder even related? Of course, there were no convenient footprints or drops of crimson leading away.

But the scent lingering on the man’s body was the same scent that Geralt had been chasing earlier—a very faint trace of damp moss, pine needles, and the tang of blood. They were definitely related. Which meant this was either a warning, or a distraction.

He looked up at the woman with bloodstained hands.

“Did you see anything?” he asked.

She didn’t respond. Geralt rose and firmly guided her away from the body. She followed in a daze. He gave her a cloth to wipe her hands clean, and then went to the Countess.

“Did your people see anything?”

De Stael shook her head. “No. We were too late. But we all heard that horrible sound, like an owl’s screech. Once from the main hall, and then once in the front garden. I sent half my guards out there to look, but they haven’t found anything yet.”

Geralt grimaced. “Call them back inside. Make sure everyone is accounted for. They won’t find the attacker there.”

No sooner had he said this than a page boy came running up, out of breath and a wild look in his eyes.

“Murder!” he gasped. “Murder, Madame! Eric and Louis—the guards by the back gate. I found them dead, with arrows in their backs!”

Geralt was struck by a deep sense of foreboding. The Countess started to say something to the boy, but Geralt grabbed her elbow.

“We need to go,” he hissed.

De Stael’s eyes widened. “What?”

There was no time. Geralt started to run, and de Stael hitched up her skirts and followed. “It was a distraction,” he said as they went. “They didn’t want us to pay attention to the back gate.” _Shit._ He hoped he was wrong about this. There were plenty of reasons an assassin might want to sneak in or out through the back gate. Ciri had been hidden, they had been careful. But he still had to check. Because in the worst-case scenario…

He burst into the Countess’s boudoir. The candles had all been snuffed out. The room was dark and empty. In front of the open window, he saw a black silhouette against an equally black night—the figure of a huntress with an arrow nocked in her bow. The breeze carried her scent to Geralt: pine trees and blood.

This was the worst-case scenario.

“Who’s there!?” the Countess de Stael demanded from behind him. “Where are my guests!?”

Geralt didn’t wait for an answer. He streaked forward in a flash. His silver blade struck against unbending steel—the huntress wore three hooks protruding from the knuckles of her fist, a bagh nakh. Her eyes burned yellow a mere foot away from Geralt’s face. She twisted her wrist, jerking his sword to the side. Geralt furiously thrust his bare hand out, trying to grab her by the neck, but she flipped backwards with supernatural grace, through the window and out of reach. Geralt slammed his palms onto the windowsill, preparing to follow her. He jerked back at the last moment. A silent, near-invisible arrow sliced through a few of his hairs before burrowing into the furniture. He flattened himself against the wall next to the window and cursed viciously.

“Geralt! Is that the assassin?” the Countess asked. She had wisely taken cover behind a couch.

Geralt shook his head. “The attacker isn’t here to kill you. She was just distracting me so somebody else could take Ciri. And now they have them both, _fuck_!”

The Countess lifted her head urgently. “I didn’t betray you! Only people I absolutely trusted ever knew the Princess was here. How could they have found her, in less than an hour?”

He didn’t know how. But it didn’t matter. He took a deep breath, centering himself and straining his ears to catch even the faintest sounds. There was no time to reach his bag and drink a potion. He would have to rely on his body’s instincts to fight the huntress in this moonless night, one nocturnal creature against another.

“Countess, on my mark, run out and find a room without windows. Stay there until I’m back.”

“Alright.” And then the Countess, shockingly, smiled at him. “I see now why he spent half his life following you.”

Geralt glanced at her sharply.

“Bring them back, witcher,” she said. She kicked off her shoes and prepared to run.

Geralt gripped his sword tight and took another breath.

“ _Go_!” he shouted.

He swung around to face the window. An arrow immediately shot toward him and the Countess, and he sliced it perfectly in half from tip to fletching. From here he could see the back gate, where the huntress balanced weightlessly on the tips of the gate’s spikes, watching him as if in mockery.

With an inhuman snarl, Geralt launched out the window after her.

* * *

Ciri felt ill. But not like when she had the cold a few days ago. This was like she’d gotten sick somewhere deep, deep down, like her insides were now on her outsides and every one of her bones hurt. Her magic was smothered, chained up, buried. The carriage jostled on the road, and she curled up tightly in the cushioned seat, trying not to throw up or let the tears fall.

At least Jaskier was here. After Sowa had made Ciri wear this awful bracelet, he had put Jaskier in a metal cage and left him in the back with Ciri. Now Sowa was up front, busy driving the carriage. Ciri stuck her fingers into Jaskier’s cage and touched his feathers with her fingertips, comforting herself.

“Are you okay, Jaskier?” she said softly. “Did they hurt you?”

Jaskier shook out his feathers and gazed at Ciri. But it didn’t feel like Jaskier was looking at her—something important was missing in his eyes.

“Why don’t you say something, Jaskier?” she asked.

Jaskier cocked his head, then turned away. He tucked his head into his wing and settled down, as if to sleep. Ciri swallowed hard around the lump in her throat.

“I know you’re in there, Jaskier. What did they do to you?” She stroked her fingers through his feathers. “It’s okay, it’s just me. You can talk to me. Where are you?”

The swan made no indication that he heard. She couldn’t access her magic, but she took a deep breath and concentrated with all her might. It made her incredibly nauseous, but it gave her just enough power to lightly touch his mind, and then she knew: everything that made him Jaskier was gone. If there was a human soul still in there, it was rendered mute and unconscious, locked away somewhere she could not reach. She was only speaking to a dumb bird under the thrall of Sowa’s spell.

Ciri’s vision blurred. She stared out unblinking, but her tears spilled over anyway, and it felt like they were spiting her for not being able to stay strong, to be the princess Calanthe had trusted as her heir.

“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “This is my fault. This is all my fault…”

But she took a deep breath, and gripped her hands around the bars of Jaskier’s cage.

“Geralt is coming,” she said. She knew it was true. Geralt had promised, and she hadn’t seen him break a promise yet. “He won’t let them take us away. We’re getting out of here. Do you hear me? Jaskier, pay attention!”

She shook the cage, just enough to make him flutter to his feet and hiss in irritation. The swan glared at her with beady black eyes. She glared right back.

“I know you’re in there. You can’t fool me,” she said. “Geralt needs you. _I_ need you. You’re a person, not a swan, remember? Don’t go away.”

Jaskier was becoming agitated. He tried to flap his wings, but they knocked into the bars, and he hissed and spun about in confusion. He snapped his beak aggressively at Ciri’s fingers.

“Come on, Jaskier,” she commanded. She forced her hand as far into the bars as it would go and managed to grab onto a fistful of feathers. Jaskier honked in protest and thrashed at her hand, but Ciri closed her eyes and thought hard about the man she had met at the lake, who made Geralt trip all over himself, who had told her beautiful stories and been kind and funny and genuine. It was only three days, but he had helped her so much. He made everything seem happier and more hopeful, even in the middle of a war. She didn’t know what she would do if he was gone.

“Come back to me, Jaskier. You can do it,” she told him. “Come back. Please come back.” She opened her eyes.

“I love you,” she said fiercely, with all her lion’s heart.

The bracelet around Ciri’s wrist suddenly glowed white hot, and shattered. Blinding light exploded into her face with a gust of searing wind, and she ducked her head, squeezing her eyes shut. The inside of the carriage glowed bright as the midday sun. Outside, the horses shuddered to a halt.

“Princess! What’s going on back there!?” Sowa’s voice called out.

Ciri opened her eyes. Jaskier’s human face stared out at her. He was crouched next to Ciri, long limbs braced against the roof and floor of the carriage. The smoldering remains of the bird cage were at his feet. He was caught somewhere between transformations: feathers ruffled in his hair and down his neck, sprouted from his arms and back, until the whole carriage seemed stuffed full of white swan feathers. Ciri could see the moment Jaskier’s blue eyes came alight.

The carriage door slammed open. “How the—!?” Sowa sputtered.

Jaskier gathered Ciri in his arms and slammed out the opposite door. She heard a _fwoop_ sound, and the ground dropped away. She looked up.

Jaskier flapped a pair of broad wings powerfully in the air, pushing higher into the night sky. He was still glowing faintly from the energy of the incomplete transformation. Beneath them, she heard Sowa howl in rage.

The bracelet was gone. Her body thrummed head to toe with magic. Nobody could stop her now.

“ _Go away!_ ” she screamed down at the ground.

A giant invisible mallet swung down onto the carriage. The wood buckled and splintered. The horses broke free of their reigns and bolted wildly down the road. Sowa disappeared somewhere, fleeing into the shadows of the city outskirts. They knew better than to chase Ciri when she was at her full power.

Against her ear, she heard a chuckle. “Dear heart, remind me not to get on your bad side.”

Ciri gripped Jaskier’s arms and looked up. Above them, the twinkling stars lit their path back to the city. Jaskier caught her eye. A pure, joyous smile spread across his face.

Breathlessly, Ciri laughed.

* * *

Geralt chased the huntress across rooftops and through winding back-alleys. It felt like chasing an insubstantial shadow. The city was dark as pitch. Like her arrows, the huntress made almost no sound when she moved, and she leaped through the air in a way that defied gravity.

But she had stopped trying to shoot him with arrows a while ago. Geralt knew he was wearing her down. His body was heavy with armor and compact muscle, and he had to stay close to the ground. Creatures often wrongly assumed this meant they could outrun him. But it was a mistake to underestimate a witcher’s stamina, and their cruel patience. The night wore on. The huntress began to slow, and Geralt inched closer, closer to his prey.

The huntress suddenly stopped. He sensed a change come over her, a faint _click_ as she adjusted her weapons. She took off in an entirely different direction.

“Geralt!” a familiar voice called.

Something lurched in his chest. All his training clamored for him to keep pursuing the monster, but Geralt turned away from that and toward Jaskier.

The man ran toward him, panting. “Geralt, there you are! I’ve been looking for you for ages!” he said, looking frazzled and upset and so, so beautiful.

The tender, new thing in Geralt’s chest squeezed tight. “Jaskier,” he said. “Where’s Ciri?”

“I don’t know. I feel—awful.” He stopped, and swayed on his feet. Geralt grabbed his shoulder to steady him.

“What happened? Where did they take you?”

Jaskier groaned and leaned forward into Geralt’s chest. Geralt felt the heat of his body, the scent of sweet grass and fresh ink which he knew so well. “Help me, Geralt.”

He touched Jaskier’s cheek. “What’s wrong?” he asked, looking into his eyes.

Jaskier’s body rippled with movement. In the end, it was pure instinct that saved him—Geralt twitched away, not realizing why, until a split second later when he felt a blade sink into his thigh, just barely missing his femoral artery. He grabbed onto Jaskier’s wrist, again moving on instinct, and stared at Jaskier’s face. His head was full of nothing but white noise.

He didn’t understand.

“I’m sorry I have to do this,” said Jaskier. His expression was blank. “But the sun is rising soon. You understand, don’t you? If I don’t break this curse, it’ll be the end of me. And I don’t love you back.”

Geralt’s lips parted on an inhale. He felt stupid, and slow. He had been built to withstand any kind of pressure he might face on the Path—but the simple shock of Jaskier hurting him obliterated all his defenses. Nothing was making sense. Dimly, he thought that this was probably why Vesemir had warned him not to get attached to people.

“You love me,” Jaskier said.

He did.

“Will you give your heart to me, then?”

It dawned on him that the answer was yes. Geralt let go of Jaskier’s hand and allowed him to withdraw the dagger. Blood spurted from the wound. Huh. Vesemir would be so disappointed.

“What about Ciri?” he managed to gather his wits enough to ask. “Where is she?”

“You don’t need to worry about the girl anymore,” said Jaskier, a cruel twist to his mouth. He raised the dagger.

In the distance, there was a light moving over the horizon. Geralt blinked at the sky. It really was almost dawn—the oppressive darkness of the night had started the lift. The world was washed in a dull gray light. There was no moon, and the stars were winking out. And yet there was a beacon of light flying low over the ground. What was that?

“Wait,” he said, holding up a hand. “First, tell me what happened to you. Who took you? How did you get here?”

Jaskier’s face distorted with frustration in a very un-Jaskierlike way. “There’s no time to explain, Geralt. I need the blood from your heart, _now_!”

The glowing object came closer. Geralt’s eyes pierced the distance and made out a pair of white swanlike wings, and attached to them, a person. And holding onto the person, a child.

The world suddenly made sense again. It was like a capsizing ship had been gifted a friendly wind and righted itself. With a great sense of relief, Geralt’s thoughts clicked back into place.

“Yes, you are in a rush, aren’t you?” he said slowly. “Because you needed to get to me first.”

“What are you talking about?”

“If you hurt Jaskier, I’m going to kill you,” he said matter-of-factly.

The mage seemed to consider trying to maintain the charade, but they knew it was over. They stabbed forward without warning. Geralt sidestepped it easily and twisted the dagger out of their grip.

The mage struggled to escape his grasp, and when this proved futile, went limp. They smiled coldly at him. “You would strike at this beloved face? And I thought you cared, witcher.”

“What do you want with Ciri?”

“Princess Cirilla is not yours,” they hissed. “You’re a monster. You don’t deserve to even look at her.”

Geralt lifted his sword and laid it across the mage’s cheek. They screamed as the silver burned their flesh. It was Jaskier’s voice, and Jaskier’s scream of agony—Geralt grit his teeth and let them go. They scrambled over the cobblestones.

“What do you want with Ciri?” he repeated.

They barked a bitter laugh. “You think I would betray my Emperor to you?”

“What did you do to Jaskier?”

“Jaskier is dead,” they spat. Geralt felt his heart stop beating. “I stole his humanity. All that’s left is a stupid bird, just like any other.” Their eyes flashed yellow. “He fought me at the end, you know. His last thoughts were of you and the girl, and how he had failed you.”

Geralt surged forward with a horrible growl. Before he could get to the mage, the huntress materialized out of the shadows and slammed into him from behind. Geralt barely twisted in time for the bagh nakh to hook into his shoulder instead of his neck. He grunted in pain and tore away from the bloodied hooks, and the two of them rolled over the ground, wrestling for control. Geralt’s sword clattered out of his grip. The huntress punched the stab wound in his thigh, and Geralt’s vision turned black for a second. Blindly, he smashed his forehead into her nose. Her limbs went weak. He staggered to his feet and away, gripping his mangled shoulder, trying to catch his breath.

He felt more than saw a movement beside him. He caught the dagger before it could reach him, and in a single motion that was faster than thought, turned it and buried it in the attacker’s own throat.

Jaskier’s mouth worked soundlessly. There was hatred in his eyes as he died. His features melted away, replaced by foreign yellow eyes and feathery hair. Geralt let the body drop to the ground, and stared at this person he did not recognize. An owl phouca. Not Jaskier. He repeated this to himself several times. He had not just killed Jaskier. But he felt frozen regardless, trapped in the memory of a past horror.

He was roused by an earsplitting screech. The huntress looked at the body on the ground, and then gave an animal scream of grief and anger. She turned her burning yellow eyes to Geralt and nocked an arrow to her bow.

There was a moment where time slowed, stretched. They met each other’s eyes, and both understood that the huntress was outmatched. Without the element of surprise, without distractions, the huntress could not kill the witcher. She could injure him, perhaps, but not much more than he already was. He would dodge the arrow, close in, and kill her.

The huntress’s eyes lifted to the sky.

Both of them, with their predators’ eyes, could see Jaskier and Ciri clearly now. They were flying in the direction of the Countess’s chateau. They hadn’t noticed Geralt was so close below them. Jaskier was glowing like a living star, mostly human except for his huge swan’s wings. Ciri was cradled in his arms, saying something in his ear that made him smile.

There was more than one way to make Geralt hurt.

The huntress pointed her arrow to the sky.

“ _NO_ ,” Geralt bellowed, and cast Aard.

The shockwave knocked her into the wall. Forgetting the pain of his injuries, he lunged forward and snatched his silver sword from the ground. The huntress tried to run—too late. He slashed his sword in a wide arc. Her head rolled onto the cobblestones.

But the arrow had already left the bow. Geralt could only watch helplessly, rooted to the spot, as Jaskier and Ciri started to fall.

* * *

Ciri was screaming at him.

Jaskier shuddered back to consciousness. They were dropping like stones, and the ground was approaching very, very fast. Hastily, he tried to open his wings and stop their fall, but his limbs weren’t listening to what his brain was trying to tell them. He flailed feebly in an uncoordinated spasm. Ciri clung desperately to his arms and screamed again.

Hot air blasted into him, snapping his wings open without his control. It slowed their fall enough that their landing was not immediately fatal. But upon impact, Jaskier heard something snap, and a lightning bolt of pain electrified his body. He blacked out again.

He came to an indeterminate amount of time later. Ciri was leaning over him and clutching something on his chest, saying _“No, no, no_.” He tried to sit up to see what was wrong, and nearly blacked out a third time. Well, that was rather not good.

“You remind me of your mother sometimes,” he said, trying for levity. His voice came out thready and weak. Breathing hurt. Everything hurt.

“Jaskier,” Ciri gasped. She stared at him with wide emerald eyes. “Don’t go to sleep again. Please—please keep talking. Don’t go away.”

Talking. He could do talking.

“You inherited Princess Pavetta’s magic. You’ve just saved me twice with it. Or was it thrice?” He stared up at the sky, which felt frighteningly vast and far away. The darkness was being replaced with shades of blue and pink. Dawn was coming soon. How far were they to the Countess’s chateau, and anyone who could help them? “Did I tell you about her wedding? Of course I did. It was wonderful. Your mother was wonderful. Kinder than the Queen, I think. But even stronger in some ways. Sent the whole court flying ten paces.”

“I liked that story when you told it to me,” Ciri said, her voice trembling. “You and Geralt were there. And I became his child surprise.”

“Bound by destiny,” he murmured. Jaskier was just a witness to the tale, a mouthpiece for the legend; but he was happy to have snuck his way into their lives, even without the aid of prophecy. It had all been such a lovely adventure. His eyelids drooped.

“Geralt!” Ciri cried out. Jaskier forced his eyes back open. “Geralt, help him, help him!”

And miraculously, Geralt was there. Bloodstained and pale-faced, but still there. Jaskier had been afraid, earlier that night, that he would never get to see him again. Geralt collapsed to his knees next to him and pushed Ciri’s hands away.

There was a broken arrow shaft sticking out of Jaskier’s chest.

Oh. That was. Bad.

“ _Fuck_.” Geralt put his hand on his chest to stabilize the shaft. “I don’t have any supplies on me. We need to get him to a surgeon. Can you help me move him, Ciri?”

Ciri nodded. But then Jaskier bucked with a sudden convulsion of pain. His transformation sputtered. It had been unstable to start with, only held together by Ciri’s will, and now he felt the familiar squeezing and stretching of his soul. Blood spilled over Geralt’s hand as his body fluctuated.

“It’s dawn. And he still has the curse,” Geralt growled. “Fuck, _fuck_!”

When Jaskier had been alone with Sowa, death had been terrifying and repugnant. But now he felt strangely at peace with it. Maybe it was the blood loss making him lightheaded. Maybe it was the two people beside him. He raised his hands and framed Geralt’s beautiful face in his palms.

“Geralt,” he said urgently. If this was to be the final page of the story, then there were certain things he really needed to say.

Geralt looked at Jaskier, golden eyes blazing with an unspoken plea.

“I’m sorry,” Jaskier admitted. No more talking in circles. No more fancy words. This was him, just him, everything he had left. “Yesterday, I shouldn’t have left. I wanted to stay with you. I always do, with you. But I was just scared. I’m a coward. You see? I never meant to hurt you both.”

Geralt covered Jaskier’s hands on his face with his own. “’S alright,” he said gruffly.

“But you still came to save me.” Another bout of pain racked his body. Geralt squeezed his hands so tightly that his bones creaked. Ciri grabbed onto his shoulder. He pushed through, though, because this was important. He needed to know.

“I left you behind,” he said. “Why did you follow me?”

Geralt gazed at him tenderly like he thought this was the stupidest question in the world.

“Because I love you,” he said, for the first time.

And for the first time, Jaskier believed him.

“Oh,” he said. He smiled, a bright, wondering thing. “Geralt?”

“I’m here.”

“Kiss me.”

Geralt leaned down and kissed him.

Jaskier, under normal circumstances, would have told you that a kiss was only one of many tools available in the discerning lover’s toolkit. It was a tool well advised to be thoroughly versed in, of course. But it was no more or less valuable than any other form of passion that he had enjoyed and refined over the years.

But this was True Love’s Kiss, a type of magic older than monsters, older than humans, older even than magic as a concept separate from the natural processes of life and death. Jaskier breathed in a kernel of power so concentrated and pure that he could almost taste it: honey, and sunlight, and the sharp sting of a witcher’s alchemy. The music of their union was the same as the harmony of the earth and the sky. Warmth blossomed in his chest. The center of the world’s gravity shifted. His heart, tangled in Arielle’s curse like a bird in a net, suddenly found itself in the safe embrace of another, and there found itself free.

After an eternity, Geralt sighed, so sweetly, and pulled away. Jaskier’s lips tingled. He beamed up at him, perfectly content. There was nowhere else he would rather be.

Geralt ran his fingers through Jaskier’s hair and brushed the last of the feathers away. “It worked,” he said quietly. He looked like he couldn’t quite believe his eyes.

“I knew it,” said Ciri. “ _Finally_.” Her eyes were damp with tears.

Jaskier started to laugh, and moved to get up.

Unfortunately, there was still an arrow through his chest. His body was firmly a human’s body, and now that it was stable, the regular consequences of having an arrow through one’s chest kicked in with a vengeance.

Jaskier promptly passed out.

* * *

It took four days before the Countess de Stael declared that Jaskier was sufficiently recovered to no longer need bedrest. Jaskier told her this was excessive. The surgeon she had hired, after operating on him, told them all that he had never seen a man more miraculously unharmed despite getting shot in the chest. It was like Jaskier’s final transformation had patched over any damage that was actually dangerous, and all that was left was a minor flesh wound. Jaskier slept through the first day, and was already on his feet and moving about (gingerly) by the second day.

The injury was also healing abnormally fast. By the third day, Jaskier didn’t need opium drugs for the pain anymore. He asked Geralt if he was doing something witchery to Jaskier, and Geralt looked shifty-eyed.

“When we kissed—that broke the curse,” he said. He paused, and then added, reluctantly: “There was also a lot of blood.”

“Yes,” Jaskier said. He shifted impatiently in the bed. Cooped up in the chateau, he was starting to feel waves of manic restlessness. “So?”

Geralt lay down over the covers next to Jaskier, picked up his hand, and laid it over his own heart. Jaskier went still, instantly calmed by the feel of Geralt’s slow heartbeat under his palm.

“Another way to break the curse would have been to stab me in the heart. Do you know why?”

“For the drama,” Jaskier said instantly. “Cruel irony. The gods have a black sense of humor.”

Geralt squeezed his hand gently. “Blood is powerful magic. So is true love’s sacrifice. I think…when I held you that night, I mixed some of my blood with yours. You’re different now. I don’t know exactly how. But you might…heal faster. Age slower.”

“Huh.” Jaskier took a moment to absorb this information. “Well, that’s not a bad perk.”

Geralt smiled, wry. Jaskier saw the relief in his face. “Comes in handy sometimes.”

Jaskier twisted his hand and threaded his fingers with Geralt’s. He met his golden eyes. “Does this mean our destinies are bound together?”

“No,” Geralt said firmly. “This isn’t like the djinn. You’re free to never see me again, if that’s what you want. You can leave anytime.”

Jaskier searched inside himself for any regrets or anxieties, and found none. He pressed himself against Geralt’s side, and relaxed into his steadiness.

“For the record, I would never have stabbed you like that, you great git. You should have seen straight through it. Didn’t you know I love you? Idiot.”

Geralt flashed a smile, and for a second, he looked breathtakingly happy. He buried his nose in Jaskier’s hair. “Mm-hm.”

“Nope, no acting cute, you’re not getting out of it! You have to say it back,” Jaskier teased. He poked Geralt in the stomach. “I’m going to make you keep saying it until I get absolutely sick of it.”

“That’ll never happen,” Geralt muttered, rubbing his face in Jaskier’s hair like a contented cat. “I’m going to keep saying it until the end of time.”

Jaskier grinned into Geralt’s chest so hard his cheeks hurt. “I love you, Geralt,” he sang.

Geralt pulled back and looked deep into Jaskier’s eyes. “I love you too,” he said, very seriously.

Jaskier flushed. Heat and desire curled in his belly. He’d never—it had never seemed so simple and inevitable, with other people. It had never been like this before.

“Kiss me, Geralt,” he said a little desperately.

Geralt’s eyes went half-lidded, his pupils darkening. He uncoiled slowly to lean over Jaskier, and captured his mouth in a searing kiss. The feel of his rough hands on his bare skin was a revelation, a secret that was worth more than shipwrecks and broken arrows to learn. He didn’t think he would ever get tired of this.

By day four, Jaskier was getting a bit frayed at the edges. The Countess de Stael, after poking and prodding at Jaskier’s bandages, finally agreed that he could leave the chateau, and Jaskier threw his hands into the air.

“Thank the gods!” he burst out. “My dear lady sees sense!”

The Countess smacked him hard on the shoulder. “I have been perfectly sensible!” she said shrilly. “You’re the one who’s always haring off to your next near-death experience. Have a thought to the people who have to watch you go!”

Jaskier realized with alarm that her eyes were red-rimmed and glistening. He lowered his hands.

“Minette,” he said delicately. “Have I been so unkind to you, all these years?”

De Stael sniffed. “Nevermind. I know who you are, by now.” She snapped open a fan and fanned her face vigorously, regaining her composure. “I am glad that you found someone, Jaskier. I really am.”

Jaskier grinned, feeling that familiar spark of happiness in his chest when he thought about Geralt these days. “Me too. Take care, will you? Don’t let any more spies into your confidence.”

De Stael scoffed, her usual ebullience returning. “Did you think for a moment that I would let that happen again? I’m reordering the affairs of my entire house. It’s time, I think, to get serious about standing up against Nilfgaard.”

“In that case, they should be shaking in their boots.” Jaskier leaned down and gave her a chaste kiss on the cheek. “Thank you for everything, Minette.”

He found Ciri and Geralt poring over a bestiary in the Countess’s study.

“The Countess has declared that I am free to go!” he announced cheerfully. He spun in a circle, showing off his good health. “Let’s get packing, chop chop! Kaer Morhen is a long way away.”

“Yes!” Ciri screamed. She jumped up and tackled him with a hug. He wobbled on weak legs, but managed to stay on his feet. “Roach and I were getting _so_ bored here. I can’t wait to meet other witchers! Have you met any before?”

“No,” he said, combing back her hair fondly. “I’ve only ever met our darling muttonhead.”

He looked up—and Geralt was on his feet, staring at him. His fingers were pressed against the table like it was the only thing keeping him upright.

“You’re coming with us?” he said in a tight voice. “I had hoped, but…”

Oh, Geralt. _Geralt._ Jaskier swallowed around the sudden lump in his throat. He released Ciri and walked up to his true love.

“It’s what I want,” he said.

“Will you stay by my side?” Geralt asked, and he could tell it cost him something to ask that. It was the least he could to do answer with total honesty.

“I’m not sure,” he confessed. “I’ve never done this before. I don’t know if I’ll end up leaving you again, if I’ll feel trapped in Kaer Morhen and have to go back to wandering.” He took a breath. “But I want to try. I really want to try to make this work.”

Geralt pressed his lips together and nodded. “You should know—I love Yennefer, too.”

“I know,” he said. “I’m okay with that. I think I was just jealous of her having what I didn't, to be honest.”

“And…Jaskier, I’m a witcher. I can’t give you much. Mine is a life of strife and the people’s contempt. I could die tomorrow from just doing my job. I can’t promise you a future, or security, or peace in old age.”

“I don’t want any of that,” he said. “I just want you. Right here and now. Just you.”

Geralt took a shaky breath. “I love you,” he said in a raw voice.

Jaskier beamed at him. “I love you too,” he said, and kissed him.

Ciri made a _bleh_ sound. “Is it going to be like this _all_ the time now? Gross.”

Jaskier laughed and pulled away. “Sweetheart, apple of my eye, come here! I love you too.” He reached out and tickled her. She shrieked and darted away.

“No fair! I was the one who knew first,” she said haughtily, hopping up onto the windowsill. “So really, you should be thanking me for getting you two together. When we reach Kaer Morhen, I demand as payment sword fighting lessons.” She pointed at Geralt. “And lute playing lessons.” She pointed at Jaskier. “Oh, and singing lessons! You _have_ to teach me how to sing the toss a coin song.”

Geralt groaned. Jaskier burst into laughter.

In the sky behind Ciri, a flock of starlings took flight. They crossed Jaskier’s vision, and he felt his heart sing in tune with them. He felt settled, and at the same time, he’d never felt so free. This, he knew, was going to be the greatest story he had ever written. A romance with a happy ending, not a tragedy. He couldn’t wait to see how it went.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can't believe I actually finished a fic. I'm so happy. God this whole fic was supposed to be 10k words TOPS how did this happen adfjs;lkj
> 
> Timing got a little weird at the end. Originally, I put in an extra day as a buffer so that there’d be another day of hijinks before the Big Climax happens on the night of the new moon. But I was tired lol so I kind of just…pretended that extra day didn’t exist. I had to force myself to ignore so many plotholes in order to get this fic done. Don't ask what they are, if you didn't notice then they don't exist.
> 
> I don't plan to write another witcher fic. Too much real life stuff to do. But I think I put everything I wanted in this one. I am, evidently, a huge sap. And I think we could all use some extra sugary sap right now. I hope you're all taking care and loving yourselves and showing other people you love them. I sure love you. Thanks for reading.


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